


but if you really hold me tight

by eyesontheskyline



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Ambivalence About Parenthood, Angst, Anxiety, Babies Are Theoretically Disgusting, Babysitting, Candy Canes As Foreplay, Christmas, Commitment Piano, Copious Fairy Lights, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gifts As Metaphor, Hanukkah, Hot Tub Sex, Hugs, Ice Skating, Light Bondage, Meeting the Parents, Nathaniel Has Friends He Definitely Has Friends, New Year, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Rebecca Bunch x Musical Theatre, Rebecca Has Friends She Definitely Has Friends, Rebecca Is A Damn Delight, Secret Santa, Shower Sex, Slow Dancing, Smut, Snow, Someone Else Is Singing Her Song, The Smut Has 'Naked' In The Summary, Vaguely Competitive Sex, We Gotta Talk About The Ring, Writing About Writing Gets Meta, blanket fort, sofa sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 52,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21620629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesontheskyline/pseuds/eyesontheskyline
Summary: December 2020 in Rebecca & Nathaniel's life.  They navigate the holidays with their families, do cute wintery things, dance, start to figure out what they want their future together to look like.  They definitely have friends, and they have a whole bunch of sex.
Relationships: Rebecca Bunch/Nathaniel Plimpton
Comments: 117
Kudos: 87





	1. Tuesday December 1st 2020

**Author's Note:**

> This was my 2019 NaNoWriMo project - it was my entire brain for two months, so thank you for clicking, I hope you enjoy, & no matter when or how much you read I'd love to hear from you - drop a comment!

He usually wakes a few minutes before her alarm. He was never one for lounging in bed before – more the kind of person whose feet hit the floor half a second after his eyes opened – but he’s come around on the subject since she moved in. The extra minutes spent with a warm, sleepy Rebecca in his arms are more than enough to drown out the ticking clock in the back of his mind. This morning, she’s still out for the count when he wakes, lying on her side with her back to him in a dark blue cotton nightdress, with one leg pulled up in front of her. When he shifts closer to her on the bed and carefully wraps an arm around her waist, she sighs contentedly, her body leaning back into his. He curls around her, nose in her hair.

She smells of citrus and sunshine, and sometimes he still can’t believe they’ve made it here.

After a few minutes of stillness, her phone vibrates against the nightstand and she groans, pulling his arm tighter around her and shoving her face into the pillow. “Good morning,” he murmurs into her hair.

“Nooo,” she whines, ignoring the insistently vibrating phone. “Because if it was a good morning I would get to stay here in a blanket cocoon with you.”

He reaches over her for the phone and deposits it on the pillow beside her head, where it becomes impossible for her to ignore.

“Bully,” she mutters, but picks it up, then a surprised laugh bubbles out of her. “Ha! I forgot! It’s December!”

“It… Sure is?”

She sits up, all at once fizzing with energy, and shows him her phone screen. She’s named her alarm _Holly Jolly Wakeup Call-y_. She smiles her best dazzling smile at him, extra charming with her hair all flat on one side and frizzy on the other. Smiling back, he hits _dismiss_ and sits up beside her, leans in to deposit a quick kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Rebecca Nora Bunch.”

“And I love you, Nathaniel J Plimpton the Third,” she replies, bringing out the old timey voice. He pulls a face at her, and she crosses her legs in front of her and bounces a little on the mattress. “Oh, this is so exciting. Can we decorate your apartment? I bet you don’t even own Christmas decorations, do you? Or a menorah. I mean, the menorah is understandable, I guess, but this place is just crying out for some Christmas cheer.”

“ _Our_ apartment,” he corrects, getting out of bed and heading for the coffee machine, grabbing their travel mugs from the cabinet. She’s behind him a second later, arms squeezing around his waist and her cheek warm against his back. He rests his hands over hers. “And no I don’t,” he says, “and yes we can. Coffee?”

“Coffee,” she replies, and kisses between his shoulder blades before skipping off to the shower, singing _Let it Snow_.

While she showers and the coffee brews, he digs in the back of his side of the closet for the advent calendar he bought her. It isn’t easy to hide things in a studio apartment – especially from a woman who wears his clothes nearly as much as her own and often appears to be possessed by the spirit of a curious puppy – but as far as he knows she hasn’t found any reason yet to go looking behind his neatly arranged rack of dress shoes. He deposits the calendar on the counter by the coffee machine, making sure the gift tag is turned to show her name.

Their morning routines have gelled surprisingly seamlessly – he finishes the coffee, makes the bed and lays out his clothes for the day while she showers. Then she breezes out of the bathroom in a towel, all citrus and steam, and they switch. When he comes out, showered, shaved and hair tamed, she’s dressed, leaning against the counter and sipping her coffee. Today, she’s in jeans and a soft lavender sweater, reading the packaging of her advent calendar with a beaming smile. “Give it to me straight, Plimpton,” she says as he dresses. “How many hundreds of dollars did these twenty-four chocolates cost?”

“Have you heard the saying about gift horses?” he says, tucking his shirt in.

“Ooh, so more than one,” she wheedles.

He rolls his eyes, and she watches him intently as he ties his tie, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “More than one,” he confirms eventually. “Less than…” He pauses, considering. “Four. That’s all you’re getting.” He shrugs into his suit jacket, charcoal with a soft check, and she smiles at him, biting her lip. It’s her favourite and he knows it. “Are you going to eat one or not?” he asks, dropping his voice low and coming over to lean beside her.

She looks up at him through her eyelashes, spreads a hand on his chest, and when she speaks her voice is clear honey. “Are you condoning chocolate for breakfast right now? That’s so hot.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say condoning,” he murmurs, his hands finding the curve of her waist and settling there over the soft fabric of her sweater.

Her hand slides up to his neck and pulls him down and then he’s lost in the warmth of kissing her, and when he pulls her body flush with his it knocks her a little off balance, enough that she clings to him harder, like she’s melting as much as he is. She’s breathless when she pulls back. “I like your suit,” she says, dropping her hand down to hold his.

“I like your sweater,” he replies, weaving their fingers together and squeezing.

“I like you.”

“I like you too,” he says, softer than he meant to. “Come on, we’d better get going.”

They make it all the way to the door before she runs back to take the little gift box labelled ‘1’ out of her advent calendar and stash it in her purse.

* * *

She’s still giddy with excitement when Paula comes to Rebetzel’s at lunch time. She grabs two cinnamon pretzels, sets them down on a table and throws herself into Paula’s arms. “Wooaahh there tiger, how much sugar have you had today?” Paula says, dropping her purse on the table and hugging back, rocking them a little from side to side.

“Oh, I’m high on life,” Rebecca replies, releasing her grip and sitting at the table. “And maybe a little sugar. And the spirit of the festive season.”

“Already?” Paula says, sitting opposite her with an eyebrows-raised smile. “It’s been December for like thirteen hours.”

“Only nine days til Hanukkah.”

“Uh huh. Well, I’m glad you’re excited.” Paula lifts her pretzel, offers it up for a toast, and Rebecca bumps hers against it. They each take a bite and just smile at each other as they chew, and for a moment Rebecca lets herself get mushy about how far they’ve come to really be friends. Equal spoons. “Nine days til Hanukkah and – is it three until opening night?” Paula asks. “Friday?”

Oh, _opening night_. Her heart does a backflip as the phrase hits her ears. Opening night of the high school play she wrote songs for – hopefully-funny reworkings of classics, to fit a contemporary Christmas story. She keeps letting herself forget how close it’s getting, because all the actual work was done months ago. “Friday,” she confirms. “I am so nervous. But good nervous. Butterflies in my stomach, not hornets in my intestines.”

Paula pulls a _blegh_ face. “Beautiful imagery as always, thank you. Then New York for Hanukkah?”

“For the start,” Rebecca replies. “Nobody needs eight straight days of my mother’s company.”

Well, that and Nathaniel suggested a night in the New York City Four Seasons then a few in a log cabin a little way out of the city, and the offer had been too perfect to refuse. She’s been checking the weather forecast every day for snow.

“Wise,” Paula says sagely, chewing a bite of pretzel. “Did you ever agree on how you’re spending Christmas? Again, you are _always_ more than welcome at my place – your company at Thanksgiving was a major improvement on Scott’s terrible uncle. And I think Nathaniel hit it off with pixelated Brendan. We’re Skyping him again for Christmas dinner – I’m sure he’d be happy to have Nathaniel there to bro out with.”

Rebecca grins. “We had the best time with you guys. But we already agreed with _each other_ on how we’re spending Christmas, just not with his parents. We’ve agreed to do the stuffy formal dinner with them on Christmas Eve as a compromise.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Doesn’t it?” Rebecca says, around a mouthful of pretzel. “And then Christmas is just the two of us at the beach, as far from our screwed up families as possible without actually leaving LA County.”

They’d talked about their holiday traditions when Paula invited them to Thanksgiving at her place, and his memories of childhood Christmases with his parents had been bleak enough to convince her there was no turning it around at this point. Hers had mostly been spent hoping with increasing desperation that her father would show up, or send a gift, or contact her at all, while her mom sniped from the sidelines. They’d agreed a clean break was the only way around the baggage, and he’d suggested Santa Monica.

“Well, I’m happy for you, honey. You both seem disgustingly happy. Truly sickening, in the best way. And if you change your mind, you know where we are.”

“Awww.” Rebecca reaches across the table to grab Paula’s hand and squeeze. “Thank you. Really.” She doesn’t know how to say the thing she’s thinking, which is that even now they’ve tipped the scales of their relationship to a much healthier balance, Paula still makes her feel the way she always wished her mother would: like there’s a place she would always be not only accepted but welcomed home, if she needed it.

Paula smiles back, her eyes a little shiny, like she can see everything Rebecca isn’t saying. She gives her hand a quick squeeze. “Alright, Cookie. You still want a ride to therapy?”

“Let’s roll.”


	2. Wednesday December 2nd 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca gives away some pretzels, & someone else is singing her song.

“Remind me again,” AJ says, eyebrows raised and arms folded, “why we’re giving away free products to an office full of lawyers?”

“They’re not _all lawyers_ ,” Rebecca replies, with an exaggerated eye roll. “And we’re advertising. We are giving away promotional samples of our festive pretzels and hot drinks as a marketing strategy, because once they’ve tasted our Christmas cookie pretzels, white chocolate fudge mocha and candy cane hot chocolate, they’re all going to want to buy five a day until February, when our Valentines products will be lined up and ready to take their place in everybody’s hearts and minds.”

“Uh huh,” AJ says. “And remind me again why we waited until December to start selling these when every other coffee shop in town has had Christmas drinks on sale since October?”

“Because I did not think of it earlier,” she replies, tilting her chin up, unfazed. She starts filling a tray with Christmas pretzels. “But better late than never, right?”

“I mean…” AJ trails off dramatically, eyes rolling skyward.

“Just load the cart, naysayer.”

She rolls a cart out from the back and puts the tray of pretzels on the lower shelf. AJ presses the lids onto the last of the tray of mochas and hot chocolates and puts it on top, then holds his hands up in surrender. “Good luck with your marketing, Rebetzel. And say hi to your sexy boyfriend, who is most definitely not the reason you’re giving away all our products as an excuse to go upstairs.”

She shoots for a stern face and misses so spectacularly she just gives up and grins. “He is sexy, isn’t he?”

“Gross.”

She smirks the entire way up in the elevator, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Honestly, the promo is kind of an excuse, but also kind of not – she doesn’t _need_ an excuse to go see Nathaniel, but it feels nice to have one, to go up there as part of her workday instead of as a break from it. And although it’s maybe not her best trait as a small business owner, she really does just like giving stuff away – it makes people happy. She still misses the Mountaintop crew, enough to make her nostalgic about the job but never quite enough to make her want it back. Plying them with free pretzels now and then feels like the right balance.

The elevator doors open to the Mountaintop office, and she rolls her cart into the bullpen to a chorus of greetings and appreciative sounds. She launches into her promotional spiel, explaining what’s in the drinks and urging everyone to _at least try one bite_ of a pretzel, then starts looking over their heads for Nathaniel. She spots him at the coffee machine with his back to her, and slips out of the crowd, tiptoeing up behind him. She stops a few steps away, though, because he’s singing quietly to himself as he stirs his coffee. She sings pretty much constantly, but it’s a rarity to catch Nathaniel at it. She listens for a few seconds, trying to tune in, then realises with a sharp pang right in the centre of her chest what he’s singing. It’s one of the songs she wrote for the play – she’d been singing it in the car this morning.

The emotion that swells in her chest is so big and bright it’s like looking at the sun. She rushes up behind him and throws her arms around his waist – his whole body jerks, his spoon clattering onto the counter. “Jesus, Rebecca!” he says, but turns and wraps her in a hug anyway. She burrows into his chest as a couple of tears spill over without her permission, then, wiping her cheeks, she takes a step back before the hug crosses his acceptable PDA line, wrapping her arms tight around herself instead. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks, the pads of his fingers tracing from her temple to her jaw, tilting her chin up so their eyes meet. “Are you crying? What happened?”

She sniffs, blinking back more tears. “I’m okay. You were singing my song.”

“Oh,” he says, the syllable all confusion. “I guess I was. It’s been in my head all morning.” He shrugs, almost apologetic. “It’s really catchy.”

Affection for him bubbles up in her chest and escapes in a laugh that’s also kind of a sob, and he wraps a hand around her upper arm, rubs little arcs back and forth with his thumb, eyebrows pulled together with concern. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I’m good!” she says, bright and cheerful as more tears spill over. His expression shifts to alarm, and she says quickly, “Happy tears!”

“Come here,” he murmurs, soft and low, resting a hand in the centre of her back and leading her into his office, closing the blinds. She drops onto the sofa and smiles up at him – he looks so confused, and his total obliviousness only intensifies the warmth expanding in her chest. He rests on the edge of his desk, crossing his ankles in front of him. “What am I missing?” he asks, studying her.

She takes a deep breath and blows it out in a _whoosh_. “Okay,” she says, flattening her hands on her knees and looking down at them, trying to gather her thoughts before meeting his eyes again. “So I try not to do magical thinking anymore – not to try to cram my life into a narrative – but you get these _moments_ , right? Moments that like, become part of how you understand something about yourself…?” She trails off, uncertain, because there are always going to be some parts of herself she can’t neatly separate into _things normal people don’t talk about_ and _things normal people don’t experience_ , and sometimes she doesn’t realise until she’s already talking that she’s saying something that’s going to sound crazy.

“Yeah,” he says, gently reassuring. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay, well, when you sang my lyrics in that revue, that was one of those moments for me. I’ve been making up songs in my head my whole life, and actually working on lyrics for real for the first time felt so great and right, and then hearing _someone else sing them_ – that…” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, trying to pull words out of the surging tide of emotion welling up in her. “I will never be able to explain how much that meant to me,” she says. “My brain is such a _mess_ so much of the time, and hearing someone else singing something that came from me…”

His mouth quirks into a tiny smile, his eyes locked on hers.

“And in two days,” she continues, her heart rate picking up, “I’m going to sit in an audience and listen to my lyrics in an actual play for the first time, and I – I don’t know if I ever would’ve done that if it hadn’t been for that moment you gave me. And hearing you sing that song just now when you didn’t think I was listening, just like, zapped me into that space, that moment of realising my song has made it out of my brain and into somebody else’s. It just feels…”

Like alchemy, kind of. It makes every stupid moment of searching and searching for a word that should be within easy reach worth it, overwriting the frustration of every clunky rhyme and flat note. When it’s hard it feels exactly as impossible and pointless as trying to run underwater. When it goes right, it feels like magic, like making something out of nothing then watching somebody else hold it in their hand. She can’t imagine a better feeling than that.

Which is comforting, now she thinks about it. That she’s learned to create her own best feeling.

She surges off the sofa and into his arms, and he catches her with a surprised _oof_ , pulling her to his chest and smoothing her hair down over the back of her head. “I am so proud of you,” he says in her ear. “You know that, right?”

She nods against his chest, spreading her hands as wide as they’ll go on his back, staying there until she can match her breaths to his, slow and steady, her emotional compass spinning painfully slowly back to something nearer neutral. She takes a step back, meeting his eyes sheepishly as his hands graze down her arms. “So I actually only came to give your employees some free festive pretzels and drinks…”

“I’m sorry I derailed you, in that case,” he replies, but he’s smiling a knowing smile. “It’s okay, Rebecca. Friday is a big deal. It was always going to be intense.” He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, tilts his head a little. “I was thinking,” he says, “that maybe I could skip the gym tonight and we could do some shopping for those decorations you wanted. Maybe tomorrow night try to put some of your nervous energy to use decking the halls?”

She grins, catching his hand and holding it in both of hers, the idea too delightful and her emotions already too close to the surface to keep a lid on her excitement. “Yeah?” she says, unable to keep the little-kid hope out of her voice.

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“Um, yes!” she says, batting his arm. “I think yes! Ooh, can we get a tree? Not a real one – there’s nothing sadder than a Christmas tree abandoned on the street – but a big one because you – _we_ – have those tall ceilings…”

“Whatever you -” he begins, then smiles to himself, apparently thinking better of it, and catches her hand and kisses it. “Yes. We can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, friends! Come & say hello here or on Tumblr - I'm eyesontheskyline there too.


	3. Thursday December 3rd 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca decorates the apartment, & they get naked.

An overstimulated Rebecca decorating for the holidays is everything he expected, dialled up several notches. The apartment turns into her own personal pinball machine as she rockets around it, bouncing from one half-finished task to the next and back again, apparently with no rhyme or reason. She sings along with a Christmas playlist and leaves a trail of packaging behind her. As directed, he does the parts she calls boring, finishes things she abandons, holds things where she asks him to hold them. He unfolds all the branches of the ridiculously large tree she chose, and keeps her wine topped up and passes her takeout dumplings while she stands on a literal ladder to add ornaments to it. She looks tiny up there, her eyes and coppery hair gleaming in the ever increasing glow of twinkle lights.

He stands at the foot of the ladder as she puts the star on top of the tree, and she turns to him with shining eyes, combing her fingers through his hair then trailing them down his jaw, sending a tingling shiver from the crown of his head to his fingertips. He reaches up for her and lifts her down into his arms, burying his face in the crook of her neck for a blissful moment before she kisses him fiercely and bounces off to place a menorah by the window and hang a wreath on the door.

Eventually, her energy fizzles out and she collapses onto the sofa in a heap, cuddling a throw cushion. He clears the bulk of the disaster zone she’s made of the floor then sits down beside her, and she settles on her back with her head in his lap, eyes closed and a peaceful smile on her lips. He brushes her hair back from her face, rests a hand on the top of her head and looks around at what her bubbling enthusiasm has done to the grey and brick of the apartment – everything sparkles and glows with a warmth that feels like her, and surprisingly she’s been restrained enough with colour that nothing looks tacky. He’s very faintly aware there was a time when he would’ve hated the idea of this – the glitter and greenery and fairy lights. Then Rebecca shifts a little and the memory of living here without her is forced to the very back of his mind by the warmth of her head in his lap.

“You okay down there?” he asks, massaging lightly at her scalp with his fingertips.

She makes a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a moan, clearly more awake than he gave her credit for, and his fingers fall still as the sound sends electricity fizzing up his spine. “Don’t stop,” she whispers.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, his throat suddenly dry, combing his fingers through her hair and scratching at her scalp again. “I thought you were falling asleep.”

She smiles, sinks her teeth into her lower lip and arches her neck a little, shifting her head distractingly higher on his thighs. “Mmm, no. I still have some of that pesky nervous energy left.”

He has to really drag his next breath in, holding himself still as she turns her head to the side and rubs her cheek against him, and she smirks, pleased with the response she gets. He swallows hard, keeps stroking her scalp with one hand as the other finds the hem of her shirt and slips underneath, his fingertips just grazing the soft skin below her belly button – her breath hitches, her fingers curling at her sides.

“Well, it’s important you get some sleep tonight,” he says, when he’s sure he can trust his voice. His hand slides up, taking in the curve of her waist before trailing his fingers back down her stomach, slipping just under the waistband of her jeans and stopping there. He watches her chest rise and fall, quick and flushed. “What can I do to help?”

“I don’t know,” she mutters, shifting her hips, starting to lose the focus she needs to tease. “I don’t know, just -”

He slides a hand down to cup the heat of her through her jeans and she moans low and soft and desperate, arching into his hand, and he swallows the groan of satisfaction that crawls up his throat. “What do you want, Rebecca?”

Her eyes open and she looks up at him, cheeks flushed and pupils blown. Her lips part and for a moment she looks like she’s going to answer him, but instead she stands up, unbuttons her jeans, pushes them down and steps out of them. He feels his jaw go slack and she bites her lip, makes to climb into his lap, but he’s on his feet a second later, hands at her bare thighs and hitching her up into his arms – she squeals, all attempts at coyness forgotten, as her feet hook together behind his back and their lips crash together, and he carries her to bed, unusually uncoordinated, depositing her with a soft _thump_ on the mattress.

She’s sitting up a second later, reaching for him and unbuttoning his pants, and he pulls off his shirt as she wriggles out of hers, and then they’re both stretched out naked on their bed, in their apartment lit by fairy lights, and she kisses like she’s running out of air. Her hands scrabble at his back, pulling him impatiently into her, but if she wants him to exhaust her he’s damn well going to do it. Pushing himself up on his knees between her thighs, he pulls in a shaking breath, catches her wrists and pins them at her sides, forcing her to slow down and breathe. She shivers, eyes locked on his and her entire body radiating impatience, and he wants to tease her for it but his brain short circuits and what comes out is, “You look gorgeous.”

A little whining whimper escapes her, and he drops down between her legs, rests his cheek against her inner thigh for a second to catch his breath and releases her wrists. She threads a hand straight into his hair, and he glances up to see where the other one went – she’s skimming it over her breast, teasing her nipple with her fingertips, and his self-control bottoms out entirely, all at once done teasing.

He spreads her open with his fingers and glides his tongue along her slick skin, savouring the taste of her, the way her body responds to him – her fingers tightening in his hair, her heels digging into the mattress, tilting her hips up. He presses open mouthed kisses against her clit, licking and sucking until she breathes in desperate gasps, and wraps an arm around her thigh to anchor her as he feels her getting close to losing control. She’s beautiful like this, entirely undone, writhing under him. He’s sure he’ll never get tired of this, any of it, maybe especially the way she breathes his name like a curse right before she comes apart with a moan, her hips pushing up against his face.

He eases her through it, his heart pounding in his ears, his mouth slow and gentle on her until she hums contentedly. She grips his hair, and before she can tug him up the bed, he slides two fingers inside her and curls them and she gasps _ohmygodyes_ as he presses his tongue hard against her clit again. She’s still sensitive, still teetering near the edge, and it’s not long before she’s moaning openly, hips shifting restlessly up, her fingers raking though his hair over and over, then she’s shuddering around his fingers, arching off the bed, her sweat-slick thighs tensing and twitching then going slack.

He crawls up the bed and pulls her into his chest, but she has other ideas – still panting, looking dazed, she throws a leg over him, rolling him onto his back. She reaches over to grab a condom from the nightstand, holds it up with an eyebrow quirked in question. He hums assent, every brain cell fizzing with want, and she opens it, rolls it on and sinks down on him, her hands planted on his chest, fingertips digging in right below his shoulders. Her hair falls forward and he reaches a hand up to hold it back, to see the pleasure on her face as she rolls her hips into him, riding the last waves of her orgasm with intent concentration. The heat of her surges through him, her muscles pulling tight around him, and he has never wanted anything in the world like he wants her.

She slows and stills, her eyes opening to meet his as she leans down to kiss him. She stops with her mouth a half inch from his, and an absurd little whimpering sound escapes him that makes her breathe a laugh across his lips. “What do you want, Nathaniel?” she says, seductive and silky.

He spreads his palms over her back, pushes his hips up into her just to watch her eyes flutter shut. He tilts his chin, brushes her lips, and she rocks into him, her breath catching. “I want you to take whatever you need,” he replies, and then her mouth is on his, her hands on his face and she’s grinding down on him – he matches her rhythm, a hand tangled in her hair as he breathes her in until she whines and he flips them, rolling on top of her and pushing up on his forearm. She lets out a little _oh_ of surprise that turns into a steady keen as he slips a hand between them, pressing his thumb down on her clit. Her eyebrows pull together and she pushes her hips up. “Okay?” he checks, because she’s got to still be sensitive.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, strained. Then, eyes locked with his, and fingertips pressed into the back of his neck, she whispers, “Hard and fast, Nathaniel.”

_God_. He gives her what she wants, of course, his thumb firm against her and their rhythm punishing and increasingly frenzied – she pants against his mouth, bites down on his lip then drags his face down to sink her teeth into his earlobe, and the string of curses he mutters as she does sends her flying over the edge. Her overwrought body trembles around him and he’s right behind her, the pulsing pressure giving way to a breathless, mindless explosion of light and heat as he buries himself deep inside her.

He drops down beside her, an arm slung over her waist, panting as the fog of the orgasm lifts and the fog of sleepiness descends. He feels her stand, and he’s vaguely aware of her in the bathroom and the many fairy lights extinguishing, then she’s back, the bed dipping as she curls up beside him. He gets up next, deals with the condom then flops back down, boneless, already half asleep. “How’s that nervous energy?” he says, dragging his eyes open to find her smiling at him, blinking slow and content.

“Sweet dreams, Nathaniel,” she replies drowsily, dragging the comforter up and over them both.


	4. Friday December 4th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca's songs are in a play & she has Feelings.

A therapist Rebecca saw once in New York suggested when she’s anxious about something, she should think of the worst case scenario and talk herself through it, considering what could go wrong at every step and how she’d respond. The idea, he said, was that by confronting the worst case scenario, she could open her mind to the possibilities that come with things not going quite as she expected. She could take back control, prove to herself that although things might not go _well_ , they would be survivable, a learning experience. They never got to the part where it made her feel better, though, because she got two steps into describing the worst a big upcoming court date could go before escalating to a full on panic attack, and before he could stop her she ran from the room and sobbed in her car for an hour that turned into a disastrously dark month, and she never saw him again. She wishes now that she’d learned to do it right.

The songs for the play were a collaboration, a whole process – the theatre director at the high school enthusiastically okayed the final version months ago. She’s visited a few rehearsals, and the kids are great, everything she wished she could be at their age. And now her part is done – there’s nothing left for her to be anxious about.

Except, of course, a theatre full of people hearing those songs for the first time. Those people not being her closest friends and supporters who tell her every time she gets off stage how far she’s come and how proud they are. It’s not that she doesn’t believe them – she absolutely does, and she’s so grateful for them, for every one of them who continues to show up time after time to support this crazy thing she does to make sense of herself. It’s just that it’s hard for her – for them too, probably – to discern their effusive, unwavering support from the question of whether she is actually any good.

The worst case scenario, she thinks, sitting on the floor of the bathroom in her underwear, is that the songs are bad. That she’s given these passionate, talented kids terrible songs to sing and the whole show is awful because of her, and she hears people in the audience saying how bad it is, how they should’ve just done _Cats_ rather than take the risk on something original. That Josh, who put her in touch with the theatre director and who has done some choreo for one of the numbers, will be ashamed to know her, embarrassed to have been part of this. That Nathaniel will feel awkward and pitying and not know what to say.

Those things are all terrible, but the real worst case scenario is that songwriting loses its magic for her. That she loses years of progress and the sense of identity she’s built in the process, and she won’t know who she is anymore.

She drops her head back against the tile, her lungs somehow too full and too empty at the same time. She knows all the reasons she’s supposed to fight this feeling, but it’s hard when the worst case scenario feels so damn _plausible_.

There’s a gentle knock on the bathroom door, and she squeaks an unintelligible response. She’s supposed to be in here getting ready, but only got as far as stripping down to her underwear before she dropped to the floor under the weight of her anxiety, and she has no idea how long it’s been.

“Can I come in?” Nathaniel asks lightly through the wood.

“Um -” she replies, squeezing her eyes shut, running her hands through her hair, scrambling to her feet, looking around for a hairbrush or a face wipe or _something_ that will make it look like she was actually getting ready. “Um, yeah, yeah, I’m just…”

But he slips around the door and a second later he’s standing in front of her with his hands on her shoulders, holding her still. “Rebecca,” he says, his voice and his hands firm and warm and grounding. “This is okay. You’re okay.”

Her lungs empty all at once and she drags in a shaking breath, grabbing his arms to steady herself. “Why did I think I could do this,” she whispers, not quite a question.

His hand slides from her shoulder to her neck, up into her hair and tilts her head back – she grabs a fistful of his jacket as she kisses him, pulling the warmth from his chest and breathing it in, expanding her lungs so maybe she can breathe again. “Because you absolutely can,” he whispers against her lips, then pulls her to his chest, his heart steady under her cheek, one hand tracing up and down the length of her spine. “You already did.”

She holds the lapels of his jacket tight, holds her ear against his chest, and he smooths his hand up and down the bare skin of her back over and over until she starts to feel like she can breathe again.

It’s better, after that. Not great, but better. She pins her hair back from her face, leaves her makeup at waterproof mascara and tinted lip balm, and when she goes back to pick up the outfit she left on the bed, Nathaniel is sitting against the headboard with his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed and her Spanx in one hand. “Maybe prioritise being able to breathe tonight?” he suggests, with the nervous air of someone who might be crossing a line, and she feels a laugh bubble out of her as she agrees.

She abandons the Spanx and puts on the dress she wore to her first open mic, partly because the pull of the symmetry is too much to resist, and partly for the confidence boost – she’d felt so completely, comfortably herself that night, and it’s grounding, remembering that. Living in the fabric of it.

By the time they arrive at the school, an odd kind of calm has settled over her. The theatre director had told her she was welcome to come backstage to say hi before, but luckily even Rebecca from weeks ago had been self-aware enough to know that wasn’t a good idea, so they are just two people arriving at a play, and when they take their seats and Nathaniel slips his hand into hers, she actually feels okay. It smells of theatre, dusty and promising, and a quiet buzz of anticipation builds in the room as it fills. She’s the kind of nervous she knows how to handle. She’s vaguely aware of Josh taking his seat on the other side of Nathaniel and saying something, but her eyes are glued to the curtain, and then the lights go down and she grips Nathaniel’s hand hard in both of hers and holds her breath.

* * *

She squeezes his hand between hers for the entire first act of the play, only releasing it for applause after each song before capturing it again. She leans forward in her seat, mouths the lyrics, and he can feel the relief radiating off her every time people laugh in the right places or someone hits a big note. The kids are great, and the songs are funny and heartfelt, and they sound a bit like her in a way that makes his heart squeeze in his chest. On his other side, Josh is all uncomplicated enjoyment, delight all over his face. At the interval, the curtains close and the lights go up and she turns to them, eyes wide and shining. “This is crazy,” she whispers. “It’s _good_!”

Josh leans around him to reply. “Of course it’s good! You _crushed it_ , Becks.”

Grinning, she burrows into Nathaniel’s chest and he wraps an arm around her shoulders and kisses the crown of her head.

She’s much more relaxed in the second half. She bounces through Josh’s hip hop number, full on bellows her support during the curtain call, tears rolling unchecked down her cheeks, and Nathaniel is half expecting someone to ask which one is theirs, but he can’t bring himself to find it anything but charming.

Back in the lobby, after, she throws her arms around his neck and he hugs her tight, whispers low in her ear that he’s proud of her – she shivers, then bats his arm, beaming as he releases her, and his heart flutters in his throat. She launches herself at Josh next, and he catches her around the waist and picks her up, spins her in a circle, then turns to Nathaniel for a high-five-turned-bro-hug. “Good job, man,” Nathaniel tells him as they pull back, and Josh smiles back, starts to respond, then Rebecca squeals and runs off.

They weave through the crowd a couple of steps behind her and find her hugging the girl who played the lead, a dark haired, blue eyed, freckle faced girl Nathaniel can’t help but immediately like. “It was so much fun singing those songs,” she’s saying into Rebecca’s shoulder, arms tight around Rebecca’s waist as they rock from side to side. “I’m so sick of terrible girl songs about wanting boys to like you or being an old crone. These were _so fun_ , I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow. Are you coming back next semester?”

Rebecca pulls back, takes her hand and twirls her under her arm. “ _Yes_ ,” she says. “To all of that. You’re amazing.” She turns, catches Nathaniel grinning at her, and adds, “Isn’t she _amazing_?”

“You’re amazing,” he confirms, to both of them.

He and Josh hang back while Rebecca buzzes through the rest of the cast and some of the backstage crew. “She’s so much happier,” Josh reflects, smiling fondly at her.

“Yeah,” Nathaniel agrees, watching her trying to angle a huge group selfie. “Yeah, she is.” Then, because it’s true and because it seems like the obvious thing to say, “You are too.”

Josh nods. “I was trying to rush everything before,” he says.

It’s not a lot to go on, but Nathaniel acknowledges it with a nod.

“I was trying to be… What I thought I was supposed to be.”

Nathaniel smiles a wry half smile, imagining sitting his past self down and telling him how much he has in common with Josh Chan. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, that’s an easy trap.”

Josh laughs. “Go us, right?” He offers his fist, and Nathaniel bumps it with his own.

Rebecca bounces back over then, her happiness warming the air around her. “Ooh, what are we celebrating? Can I celebrate?”

“Personal growth,” Nathaniel says, and Josh holds up a hand.

She high fives it, laughing, then takes Nathaniel’s hand and swings it back and forth, looking hopefully between him and Josh. “Wine bar?”


	5. Saturday December 5th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca & Nathaniel take his mom to see _The Nutcracker_.

Rebecca leans against the wall in a silky wrap dress, her ankles crossed in front of her and her cage heels dangling from her index finger, watching him get dressed. “Just so I’m a little prepared,” she says, eyes all over him as he pulls on pants, “how much is your mom going to hate me?”

“Not at all,” he replies, putting on a powder blue shirt and starting to button it, and she raises her eyebrows sceptically. “Nobody can hate you, Rebecca. Everyone who tries ends up your best friend somehow. Or living with you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not true,” she says. “You know what I mean – what am I walking into here?”

“You’re walking into a theatre in Los Angeles for a performance of _The Nutcracker_ with your loving boyfriend and his…” He pauses, thinking about it. “Kind of emotionally distant mother.”

“And your dad isn’t coming because…?”

“Because he wasn’t invited,” he replies. “Because I’m done spending any more time with him than absolutely necessary, and I already need to see him for the firm’s charity ball and Christmas eve dinner, and that’s more than enough for one month.”

She fidgets with the little bow pendant on her necklace, watching him.

“Because she actually enjoys ballet,” he continues, tucking his shirt in. “And because this is an opportunity for you and my mother to get to know each other without my father breathing down her neck colouring her opinion. A chance for you to become…” He knows how it’s going to sound, but there’s no other word for it. “Allies.”

“We’re at war?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

“My father treats every interaction like he’s at war,” he says. He grabs a jacket from the closet, puts it on and looks himself over in the mirror, runs his hand through his hair to mess it up a little. She smiles, watching him, chewing at the inside of her lower lip. “I try not to get dragged into it anymore,” he says, “but sometimes the best way to survive is to go in prepared. You never know, you might even win.”

He takes a step toward her, and smiling a little, she says, “You know, winning over parents has always been kind of my specialty, but I feel like yours are going to be a whole new kind of challenge.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says, slipping his hands around her waist. She pushes herself up on her tiptoes and wraps an arm around his neck to kiss him, warm and soft. “You don’t back down from a challenge, Rebecca Bunch,” he says, keeping his hands on her waist as she drops back down to flat feet. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”

“Love me?” she says, her smile pure sunshine.

“Love you,” he confirms, backing her up against the wall and dipping down to kiss her again.

* * *

They have a while to settle in the theatre bar before his mother gets there. Nathaniel gets them drinks, wine for himself and Rebecca and a martini for his mother – she doesn’t care about the stupid ice like his father does. Despite her questioning before they left the apartment, Rebecca exudes a quiet confidence. Self-assured is her default state these days, and buoyed by the success of the play the night before, she’s glowing in a way he finds damn near irresistible. She knows it, too, brushing torturously against him at every opportunity, shifting her knee against his under the table.

They both stand when his mother arrives, and he can’t help holding his breath a little. The thing is, he honestly does not care if his parents don’t approve of Rebecca. Their approval lost its appeal a long time ago, when he finally figured out that not only was it impossible to achieve, but the further he travelled in its direction, the more miserable he was. But he loves her, and for better or worse, he loves his mother too. And it would just be nice, he thinks, to have this one normal thing.

Rebecca steps confidently into his mother’s personal space when she approaches, touches her elbows and kisses her on both cheeks, and he bites back a smile as he introduces them. He forgets about this sometimes, how perfectly charming she can be.

His mom sits, and he slides her martini toward her. Rebecca raises her glass, and they _clink_ , three ways. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” Rebecca says, smiling so wide it’s impossible not to join in. “Are you looking forward to the show? The reviews so far are so impressive.”

His mother starts talking about the first time she and Nathaniel saw _The Nutcracker_ together here. He has very little memory of it – he knows his parents were both there, sitting on the other side of his au pair, and he knows he fell asleep in the car home to the sound of his father loudly criticising the people who had been sitting in front of them. He lets it sound like a magical family evening, though, mostly tuning out the details, and apart from gently resting her hand over his on the table, Rebecca shows no sign she knows any different. She tells his mother she looks like she could’ve been a ballerina, which delights her.

The way Rebecca’s thumb strokes the back of his hand in slow circles as they talk about the show tells him he must seem nervous, but he isn’t, not really. She just isn’t used to the stiff formality he falls into in his mother’s company anymore, having steamrollered her way right through it years ago.

“Tell me about how you two met,” his mom says, smiling between them. “You worked at the firm with Nathaniel, I believe?”

“I did!” Rebecca says, laughing bright and musical. “Nathaniel and I had a bit of healthy competition when he first took over Whitefeather, didn’t we, honey?”

He swallows the disbelieving laugh that threatens to burst out of him. _Honey_ is unusual, for one, although he doesn’t hate it. Also, the more accurate description would be _my father set me an impossible task just to watch me fail, and Rebecca illegally dug up a bunch of graves and tried to kill me with a ballpoint pen rather than let me fire her friends to appease him, saving my ass in the process, and now I mention it, no, I never did acknowledge that_. “Something like that,” he agrees, pressing his knee against hers under the table. She slides her foot between his, the insides of their ankles touching. He swallows. “Rebecca was – very impressive. She still is, every day.”

Rebecca smiles at him with her hand over her chest, genuinely charmed, and he feels his answering smile light up his face. “She was my best lawyer,” he says. Then, because it’s only fair, he adds, “Then she was my boss.”

“He was _my_ best lawyer,” Rebecca allows, squeezing his hand. “And now he’s my best customer.”

If Nathaniel was her best customer she would’ve gone out of business long ago, because he nearly never gets anything other than a black coffee, which she nearly always gives him for free, but he lets it slide, instead adding, “And your biggest fan.” Because she’s both pretzel stand owner and songwriter, and it would’ve never occurred to him before Guatemala how boring it gets to never get a chance to talk about the thing you love doing because it isn’t the thing that makes you money.

The expression that flits across Rebecca’s face is raw and warm and touched, then she rearranges it to a gracious smile and turns back to his mother. “So that’s our story – how did you and your husband meet?”

It’s a bold move – Nathaniel feels his eyebrows shoot upward, and his mother blinks at her a couple of times before responding. But it works – smiling warmly, she tells the story of the ball where she met his father. She manages to make it sound like a genuinely romantic chance meeting, although from what he understands the whole thing was orchestrated by both sets of his grandparents and had a distinctly transactional feel to it. A couple of times, his father tried to set him up very similarly with the daughter of an old law school friend, and it felt a lot like being up for auction at a classy cattle market. But she’s clearly had a lot of practice spinning it as a beautiful love story, and Rebecca _ooh_ s and _ahh_ s in all the right places, her thumb gliding soothingly over and over the back of his hand, and the sight of them smiling at each other settles warm and hopeful in his chest.

At the announcement it’s time to take their seats for the show, Rebecca pulls out her phone. “We need a selfie for Instagram first!” she says.

“Do we?” Nathaniel asks lightly, and she pulls a ridiculous face at him.

His mother looks from him to Rebecca and back again, then Rebecca loops an arm through hers and, looking somewhat taken aback, she leans into her and smiles for the camera. Nathaniel obediently stands on her other side with his hand on her shoulder, smiling. After a moment of awkward hovering, her hand settles on his back, and Rebecca snaps a picture.

As they file into the theatre, he rests a hand low on Rebecca’s back, brushing his thumb over the silky fabric of her dress, and she turns to look up at him, smiling. He tries to say something, anything, but can’t find the words. Taking his hand, she whispers, “We’re winning.”

* * *

They sit on either side of him in the theatre, Rebecca’s hand resting in the crook of his elbow. The music feels familiar, calling back hazy, confused childhood memories, and a couple of times he glances over at his mother and her eyes are shining. He blinks away tears he can’t quite explain to himself, and rests his hand over Rebecca’s on his arm.

After, his parents’ driver is waiting outside the theatre to pick her up. “This was wonderful, Nathaniel, thank you,” she says. “And Rebecca, dear, it was lovely to finally meet you. Are you sure you’ll make your own way home? It’s really no trouble to drop you off.”

“We’re okay, mom, thank you.”

She hovers for a moment, then Rebecca takes a step forward and hugs her – her eyes widen a little in surprise, but she accepts it, hugs back even, smiling. She looks toward Nathaniel, hesitant, and he hugs her too, feeling stiff and awkward. She squeezes his arm before she steps back, whispering in his ear, “She’s lovely, darling.”

“Thanks, mom,” he says as he straightens up. “I’ll see you soon.” He swallows hard, clears his throat and adds, “I love you.”

Once she’s gone, Rebecca turns to him, grabs his face and pulls him down to kiss her, sliding her hands into his hair – the remaining tension drains out of him as their lips meet, and he doesn’t care that they’re on the street outside a theatre and there are people walking by everywhere because he’s wanted to do this all night. Her lips are soft and her nails brush his scalp, and as he draws the warmth of her body against his with a hand at her back, it’s embarrassing how tempted he is to find a storage closet or pantry or single stall bathroom. He pulls back, breathless, and she sighs, dropping her hands down to hold his, looking up at him with flushed cheeks.

“That went well, right?” she says.

“That went…” He closes his eyes for a second, gathering himself, and her hand brushes along his cheek. “That went really well, yeah.”

“Home?” she suggests quietly.

“Let’s go home,” he agrees.


	6. Sunday December 6th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca & Nathaniel get (stay) naked, then write some nondenominational winter scene cards.

She wakes slowly, burrowing her face into the pillow, stretching out her limbs then retreating when her foot hits cold sheets on Nathaniel’s side. She’s still for a moment, listening, but the apartment is silent around her, so she turns and feels on his pillow for a note. There’s always a note. She smiles sleepily when her fingertips make contact with the paper, blinks her heavy eyelids open to read his ridiculously neat cursive.

_I’m out for a run – I’ll see you soon with breakfast and coffee. Love you -N_

Humming contentedly, she feels around on the floor for Ruth Gator Ginsburg, pulls her onto Nathaniel’s side of the bed and goes back to sleep.

She’s distantly aware of the click of the apartment door, the muffled sound of him setting his keys down gently, then the shower is white noise. She imagines him stepping under the shower spray and smiles, her bare skin tingling all over. There’s a twinge of temptation to get up and join him in there, but her limbs are heavy and her mind is groggy, and she just can’t bring herself to move yet. She squeezes her thighs together and shoves her face into RGG’s neck.

The next thing to wake her is Nathaniel easing into bed behind her – she shuffles over to give him more room, and he slides a hand appreciatively down her naked body from shoulder to thigh. She sighs, leaning into him and threading their fingers together. “How was your run?”

“Good,” he replies, his lips against her temple. “How was your sleep?”

“Good,” she mumbles, pressing her back against his bare chest. “Missed you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” She brings his hand down to rest on her hip – his fingertips tighten, and she inhales sharply.

He kisses her temple, then works his way slowly down to her jaw, her neck, his tongue darting over her pulse point, and warmth radiates out from where his lips touch her, waking every nerve, pooling low in her stomach and between her thighs. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters, because really, it is – she’s still tender from last night.

“You want to stop?” he asks, pulling back and releasing his grip on her hip. “I brought breakfast, we could just -”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

He makes a quiet, needy sound as he drops his mouth back to her neck and gets back to kissing her, and his hand slides around to her stomach. His fingers spread wide, sending electric pulses tingling through her veins, and she arches back into him, a low hum vibrating through her chest as his hand drifts lower. She hisses out a curse as his fingers slip between her thighs. “You okay?” he checks, and she breathes a _yeah_ as she rocks into his hand, twisting around to kiss him, her mouth still slow and sleepy even as her body sparks with electricity.

“God, Rebecca,” he mutters, exploring her with his fingers, teasing around her clit. She shivers, letting herself get lost in the sensation. She can feel him hard behind her, and she reaches back, trails her fingertips along the length of him, and he makes a surprised, tortured little sound.

“Well, are you coming in or what?” she teases, and he groans, pulls back long enough to get a condom on, then his hand is back on her hip and he’s lining up, sliding inside her. She pushes back into him, arching her back for a deeper angle, and he slips his arm under her neck to wrap it around her, bringing his other hand back around to her stomach and flattening it there. She clings to his arms, her fingers tight around firm muscle, and she can feel him everywhere, wrapped around her and moving inside her, and it feels so _safe_. She sighs, kissing every part of his arms she can reach, letting the little panting sounds he makes fizz through her. She loves this, how much he loses control when they’re like this, how obviously and fully he wants her. His pace is leisurely, but his grip on her is firm and unrelenting and her heart pounds in her ears as pressure builds slow and steady between her legs. “Nathaniel,” she whispers.

He nudges her hair aside with his nose, kisses the back of her neck, buries his face there and breathes deeply. “Mm?” he manages.

She takes his hand and guides it down, presses his fingers hard and firm against her clit. “ _Fuck_ ,” she breathes. “I love you.”

She says it a lot, they both do, but it was a long time before she could say it during sex, a hang-up left over from their supply closet days, from all the times it was on the tip of her tongue and it was the most important thing in the world that she didn’t let it escape. His arm tightens around her in response and he presses a hard kiss to the nape of her neck, the scrape of his teeth making her shiver, ramping up the desperate ache between her legs. His voice is low and laboured when he replies. “I love you too, Rebecca.”

His fingertips make tight little circles on her clit, slow at first then picking up the pace when she whines, writhing into him. She’s getting so close now, gasping each breath, and the pressure of his fingers is everything. “I will literally kill you if you stop that,” she breathes, and his laugh turns into a broken _ahh_ , his forehead pressed into her shoulder, and she breaks apart, her body pulling tight and a breathy little sobbing sound escaping her as she tumbles over the edge and drags him with her, his hips jolting into her, muscles quaking around her.

She’s jelly for a long time, breathing hard, content with his arms wrapped tight around her. He presses lazy kisses to her shoulder, nuzzling at her neck. When he gets up to dispose of the condom, she rolls onto her stomach, stretching out.

Eventually, she manages to drag herself out of bed and into the shower. Post-coital glow aside, she feels wrung out and exhausted. The play went better than she could’ve imagined, and the ballet with Nathaniel’s mom was actually fun, and she’s happy, she really is, but she can only take so many high stakes social occasions in a row before wanting to wrap herself in a blanket and hibernate for a long time. It’s exhausting, the constant work it takes to catch herself again and again on the precipice of falling into a character, to separate herself from the way she imagines other people are perceiving her and try to just _be_. She takes her time in the shower – she sings, she does a hair mask, she exfoliates everywhere she can reach, feeling gradually more human with each second under the stream of hot water.

They have breakfast together when she emerges – her feet tucked under his thigh on the sofa cushion, a sludgy looking green smoothie for him and pancakes for her – then he reaches down by the side of the sofa and hesitantly produces a pack of greeting cards. They’re pretty, watercolour snow scenes. “I thought this might be a low energy thing we could do today,” he suggests. “Watch a movie and write some nondenominational winter scene cards?”

She tilts her head at him, feeling a familiar warmth spread in her chest as affection for him rushes dizzily through her. Glitter explosions and fairytale music pale in comparison to this glow – this quiet, gentle knowledge that she is loved. She skates a hand from his shoulder to the curve of his neck. “You anticipated my burnout,” she says, and it comes out so soft it’s practically liquid. “That is so sweet.”

“Well, it’s been… A lot. And your mom’s gonna be a lot too, so -”

“Ohh, yeah, no, let’s not go there just yet,” she says, waving that thought away before he can finish it. “Let’s do the card thing. Ooh, what’s your favourite Christmas movie?”

They put on _Love Actually_ and settle on the floor in front of the coffee table, each with a stack of cards in front of them. She did an exercise for therapy recently where she wrote never-to-be-read letters to people in her life she’s grateful for, and she tries to translate some of the lighter aspects into the notes she writes in Paula, Heather and Valencia’s cards. It lets her hold onto the warm feeling, wrapping it around herself with every word she writes.

“You’re going into a lot more detail than I am,” Nathaniel says, peering over.

She glances at the card he’s writing, which reads _‘Maya – Happy holidays – Kind regards – Nathaniel’_ , and grins. “Don’t worry,” she says. “You’re implying emotional intimacy by skipping the last name and numerals.” He hovers for a moment on the edge of embarrassment, like he’s not sure if she’s really laughing at him. She unfolds her legs and leans over to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “It’s perfect,” she assures him.

He seals the card into an envelope and adds it to his stack.


	7. Monday December 7th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel catches up with Heather & Darryl, & holds a baby.

“So, Nathaniel,” Heather says, leaning over the bar at Homebase, “when did this place get classy enough for your fancy client meetings? We’re so honoured.”

Lunch meeting finished and client safely out of the building, Nathaniel gathers his papers, abandoning his table to sit across from her at the bar as he tucks them into his briefcase. “This place is not nearly classy enough for _my_ client meetings,” he says. “This was _Darryl’s_ client meeting. I’m covering some of his cases while he’s on paternity leave, and this was already in the calendar. I didn’t see any sense in changing the location.”

“Suuuure,” Heather says, dragging it out, pouring him a glass of water, dropping a couple of ice cubes and a lemon wedge in it and sliding it toward him. “The West Covina Homebase hasn’t grown on you, like, at all. Your cold heart isn’t even slightly warmed by its unlikely charm.”

“Never,” he scoffs, taking the water and tipping his head in thanks before taking a sip. “But actually, while we’re on the subject of unlikely charm, I have something for your servers.” He takes his wallet out of his pocket, removes a roll of bills and holds them out to her. “Christmas tips.”

She takes them, unfolds them and counts them, eyebrows raised. “Dude, you were just, like, carrying this fistful of hundred dollar bills around? Don’t rich people famously never carry cash?”

“From my car to the door,” he says, waving her off. “I wasn’t too concerned about being mugged in broad daylight by children on their way to baseball practice.”

“Oh, it’s the parents you need to look out for,” she says, tucking the bills into the front pocket of her blazer. “They have to fund all those wine spritzers and rideshares somehow. Thanks, though. For this.” She pats her pocket. “I have a staff meeting with the servers here tomorrow morning, so. You’ve pretty much made their week already.”

“It’s no problem,” he says, cheeks warming a little.

She folds her arms across her chest, head tilted. “It’s impressive how committed you are to this nice person shtick,” she says. “It’s almost like it’s -” she widens her eyes in mock horror “- for _real_.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Good thing you know better, right?”

“Uh huh. Well. Your secret’s totally safe with me, kiddo. I got you.” She taps her nose at him, then a phone rings and someone calls her name, and she disappears into the back. Smiling, he takes his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his emails, firing off a couple of quick responses and flagging the stuff he needs to deal with when he gets back to the office. A text from Darryl pops up, and he opens it: _Hey pal, are you still at Homebase for the Meyers meeting? Ella and I are in the neighbourhood and we’d love to swing by!_ Another text, a second later: _Ha – swing! Baseball!_ The next message is a long line of laughing emojis.

Nathaniel’s eyes roll to the ceiling, a muscle memory of exasperation, then he types a response. _Still here. See you both soon_.

Darryl bustles through the door a few minutes later, a complicated-looking baby carrier strapped to his chest and a diaper bag slung over his shoulder. “Ohh, it’s so good to see you!” he says, coming in for a hug, and Nathaniel gingerly keeps him at arm’s length to avoid crushing the baby.

Darryl unbuckles the series of pulleys and levers holding his daughter in place, then thrusts her toward Nathaniel in outstretched arms, a tiny bundle in a polka dot onesie. Alarmed, he says, “Oh – I, um – I don’t -”

“Oh, it’s easy!” Darryl says. “You hold Hebby all the time! Just support her head.”

He didn’t hold Hebby until she was a lot sturdier than this, but Darryl isn’t easy to say no to, so he makes a cradle out of his arms and lets a delightedly cooing Darryl place Ella into them. She makes a little snuffling sound as she settles against his chest, and Nathaniel stares down at her, sure there are things he’s supposed to say but unable to summon any of them. She is impossibly small, her face pink, tiny eyelids peacefully closed and heart-shaped mouth a sleepy pout. _Babies are disgusting_ , he tells himself as the warmth of her takes root in his chest and winds around his heart. He’s silent too long, staring down at her, then says the only thing his brain is supplying: “She’s… Small.”

“Yeeeaahhhh,” Heather says, reappearing behind the bar. “She’s like, freshly baked. Hot from the oven. Don’t worry, though, she’ll grow.”

He glares at her and she snorts a laugh, then leans across the bar to boop the baby on the nose. “Hey, kiddo. Welcome to life, I guess. I incubated your big sister, so. We’re family.”

“That is so sweet of you to say!” Darryl says, hand over his heart. “We’ve just been at the office saying hello to everyone. And I had to take my pick out of the Secret Santa hat, of course.”

“Of course,” Heather echoes, and Nathaniel’s lips quirk into a smile. He shifts Ella onto one arm so he can use the other hand to secure the tiny mitten slipping off her hand.

Darryl beams at him. “I can’t tell you who I got,” he says, making a zipping motion across his lips. “For Secret Santa, I mean.”

“Nooo,” Heather says, nodding slowly. “Because it’s a secret.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Darryl replies. He looks expectantly at Nathaniel.

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Seriously?” he says. Darryl’s eyes widen innocently. “No way. I’m not telling you who I got.”

Wounded, Darryl presses his hand to his chest. “I would never ask you to tell me that! Although if you need any help, I could give you some great gift ideas, and I wouldn’t tell _a soul_.” He crosses his heart for emphasis, winking conspiratorially.

Nathaniel rolls his eyes. “Noted, thank you.” Darryl continues to stare at him. “I’m still not telling you.”

Waving him off, Darryl leans in. “Ooh, I saw on Instagram you and Rebecca saw _The Nutcracker_ – was that your mom in the picture?” Nathaniel nods. “I knew it! You look just like her! I just love _The Nutcracker_ , don’t you? Madison and I have gone every year since she was little. We haven’t had a chance to make plans to go this year with Ella arriving – not that we’d trade her for tickets to the ballet!” He laughs, and Nathaniel finds his arms tightening around the baby as she fusses, bouncing her a little. “Oh you are a _natural_ ,” Darryl coos.

He looks up, aghast, and meets Heather’s amused gaze. “Oh, no,” she says, shaking her head. “He isn’t. His heart is carved from like, cold, hard marble or something, right Nathaniel?” She gives him an exaggerated wink, and he tries and fails to glare at her, a smile irresistibly pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Say cheese!” Before he can protest, Darryl is pointing his phone at him and snapping a picture.

* * *

Rebecca waves at him from behind the counter at Rebetzel’s as he enters the lobby, already making him a coffee. She bounces up on her tiptoes as he approaches, stretching over the counter, and he leans over to press a quick kiss to her cheek – she leans into it, humming. “I have just seen the most adorable picture of you.”

He cringes. “Of course he sent you the picture.”

“Oh, no, he didn’t,” she says, pressing a lid onto his coffee and passing it to him. “He Instagrammed it. Hashtag-Nathaniel-J-Plimpton-the-Cutest.”

“Wonderful.”

She reaches up to ruffle his hair, and he does a quick dive to dodge her, waving over his shoulder on the way to the elevator. “See you at five-thirty, Bunch!”

Back at the office, he opens his top drawer and takes out the slip of paper he pulled from the Santa hat with Darryl’s name on it. He orders four tickets to _The Nutcracker_ , then sends a text to Heather: _Do you have April’s number?_

She replies a few seconds later. _Who’s asking?_

He rolls his eyes. _I am._

Heather: _I think you mean Santa is. Come on, get in the spirit._

Nathaniel: _Fine, Santa is. Could you pass on a message? Could you tell her they have plans on the 23rd? Madison and Chloe too._

Heather: _Sure thing, Kringle. Who should I tell her is babysitting?_

Heather: _It’s you, right?_

Heather: _It’s totally you._


	8. Tuesday December 8th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca prepares for a visit with her mother.

As much as Rebecca misses working in the same building as Paula, Tuesday lunches before therapy are some of her favourite times of the week. Sometimes Paula’s schedule is too tight for anything more than a pretzel, but sometimes they can stretch it out and have a real lunch. Today is a stretchy day – Rebecca links her arm through Paula’s and they window shop their way through the mall, occasionally stopping to actually buy something. They get a table at an Italian chain place that would make Greg cringe, and order mocktails. Rebecca starts pulling things out of her shopping bags, settling in for a post-mortem on her impulse buys.

“So here’s the thing,” she says, unwrapping a little square box from its tissue paper. “My mother _likes_ crystal. She has so many crystal things, and that should make her like, the easiest to buy gifts for, right? Like every other mother who likes crystal things. Except every time I buy her _anything_ she hates it.”

“Your mother finds a way to hate something you do for no good reason?” Paula says, straight faced except for one perfectly raised eyebrow. “Shocking.”

Ignoring her, Rebecca ploughs on, “But I think this year is the year. I think she is actually going to like these.”

She opens the box and slides it across the table to Paula, who dutifully inspects the earrings inside as if she wasn’t right there when Rebecca bought them.

“What do you think?” Rebecca asks, leaning forward, staring at them some more. They’re objectively beautiful, she thinks – white gold posts and a dangly crystal teardrop, just big enough everyone will notice them, not so big they look tacky. And her mother likes things that make her sparkle. The ring holder was a stupid idea – nobody would even see it, and maybe it did look a _little_ like it was for putting in your butt. The earrings are something Naomi can wear to the community centre and say _thank you, they’re a gift from my daughter – she went to Harvard and Yale_ , and never mention that she now sells pretzels in the lobby of an office building in West Covina.

“Yeah, no, I think they’re beautiful, honey,” Paula replies, weighing out every word, her expression an apologetic grimace. “I also think her opinion on your gifts has less to do with the actual _gift_ and more to do with her pathological need to find fault with you at every turn.”

Rolling her eyes, Rebecca takes the box from the table and drops it back in the bag. “We’ve been doing better,” she says.

“You’ve been doing better because you’ve been less invested in her opinion,” Paula points out. “Which is a _very good thing_. Sweetie, you’re doing so well, I just don’t want you going backwards.”

Rebecca scowls at her, but her heart isn’t in it – she’s clearly right. It would just be so great for a visit for her mother to be _good_ , not just _survivable-with-the-right-tools_. She can only imagine how satisfying it would be to watch her mother open a gift and actually appreciate it. Paula tilts her head sympathetically, as if she’s reading her mind, and at least she has this. “But you think they’re pretty?” Rebecca says, in a pouty baby voice, scrunching her nose.

“I think they’re pretty,” Paula confirms, in a no-nonsense tone that says _and that’s the end of that_. “Let’s see what else you got in there,” she adds, her voice bright, prodding at Rebecca’s other bags.

It couldn’t be a less subtle subject change, but Rebecca allows it. She unfolds the scarf she bought Nathaniel, soft wool in a shade of charcoal that makes his eyes stand out clear blue and heartbreaking. Paula hums appreciatively as she runs a hand over it. “Tall handsome Californian baby’s first knitwear?” she asks.

“Probably,” Rebecca replies. “Ugh, he’s going to be so cute in real winter clothes.”

“It is disgusting how photogenic that man is,” Paula agrees. “Is he prepared for Naomi?”

“Is anyone ever prepared for Naomi?” Rebecca grumbles, picking a sprig of mint out of her virgin mojito and starting to shred it.

“She liked me when I was a British Jew,” Paula says, taking a sip of her drink, smirking. “Maybe tell him to try that.”

Rebecca throws the mint at her as she cackles.

* * *

Rebecca sits against the headboard, picking at some lyrics in her notebook as Nathaniel gets ready for bed. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” he observes, getting gym shorts out of the dresser and folding them into his bag. “Was therapy okay? How was Paula?”

“Yeah, no, it was fine,” she says, leaning her head back and watching him. There’s something comforting about how methodical he is, the rhythm of his movements as he lays his clothes out for the morning and packs his gym bag. She looks down at her notebook, chewing her pen, then back up at him. “Paula’s good. She’s taking on this big new client at work that she seems really excited about, because like you she is a nerd for the law…” He smiles, and before she can overthink it, she adds, “I bought my mom a pair of earrings today that I think are a metaphor for you.”

“Um,” he says. He zips up his gym bag and sits down on the edge of the bed, facing her. “Okay. Say more.”

Smiling, she says, “Did you learn that from Doctor Man Akopian?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Also, again, I am never going to start calling him Doctor Man Akopian, because, again, that is ridiculous.”

“It’s not my fault you vetoed Doctor Mankopian when it was clearly the superior option.”

He raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“Right,” she says. “So anyway. I bought my mom these earrings today for Hanukkah. And they’re like, objectively the perfect gift for her. There’s no reason she wouldn’t like them. She likes white gold, she likes crystal, she likes earrings, she’s basically a magpie who collects shiny objects to decorate herself with to show off to the other women at the community centre -”

“This is a flattering comparison so far.”

“- but she doesn’t like anything I give her, ever. No matter how perfect it is.”

He shifts across the bed to sit opposite her, cross-legged, and lifts her right foot into his lap. Pressing his thumbs into the arch, he says, “This feel okay?” She drops her head back and sighs, makes an indistinct sound that means _yesyesyes_. He works the tension out of her foot in silence for a couple of minutes before saying carefully, “So if the earrings are a metaphor for me, did you um… Did you get a gift receipt?”

“Nathaniel,” she says softly, putting her notebook and pen down on the nightstand. “No. The earrings are perfect.”

He smiles a little, nodding. “But you can’t predict what she’s going to think of me. Is that what you’re worried about?”

She hums, thinking about it, stretching out her toes. He catches them and squeezes, and a satisfied little sigh escapes her. He places her foot down gently, picks up the other one and starts on the arch. “I don’t think so,” she says eventually. “No. I know it doesn’t matter what she thinks of you. What I’m worried about is that there’s this part of me that still thinks if I just buy the perfect earrings, she’ll suddenly approve of my life choices. There’s a part of me that’s still trying to find that thing to make our relationship click into place, even though I know objectively there’s nothing I can do to make her happy, because she needs to make herself happy.”

His eyebrows quirk up in a quick flash of recognition, and he releases her foot and reaches for her. She pounces, taking him by surprise enough that he falls backwards onto the mattress as she kisses him, her hands on his face and body curving around his. She feels him smile into the kiss as he responds, his arms coming up around her back to hold her close. They break apart and she curls into him, head on his shoulder and a hand splayed on his chest. “You are objectively great,” she murmurs. “I hope you know that.”

“ _You’re_ objectively great,” he replies. “And I love you – a lot of people love you. _You_ love you. Nothing your mother can say is going to change any of that. You know that, right?”

She sighs, nuzzling into his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I love you.”


	9. Wednesday December 9th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel gets sentimental, & there's naked shower sex.

Nathaniel finishes the last powdery gulp of protein shake, places his cup down on the counter and throws his sports towel over his shoulder. “Well, guys, I’m gonna head. Same time next week?”

“Yup. Hey, this time next week you’ll be living in a post-Scarsdale world,” Greg says, saluting him. “Godspeed, my friend.”

WhiJo rolls his eyes. “You don’t think Rebecca’s mom is an exaggerated caricature in your mind because – oh, I don’t know – Rebecca is the most dramatic human being who ever lived?”

Greg shrugs. “Rebecca’s dramatic, not completely delusional – there’s no smoke without fire. There’s going to be _something_ crazy about Naomi Bunch, and Nathaniel is about to find out what it is.”

“Is it ever gonna stop being too soon to talk about Rebecca and fire in the same sentence?” WhiJo muses.

“Alright!” Nathaniel says, grabbing his locker key from the counter and waving it. “Bye now.”

He sends her a text to let her know he’s on his way before driving home. It’s one of his favourite things in the world, coming home to her. They nearly always carpool to work, and she has more extra-curriculars than he does. But at least once a week he hangs out with friends after work, and he always feels weirdly light on the drive home, knowing the apartment isn’t going to be empty and silent when he gets there.

He’d had roommates in college, and taken their presence for granted – he never really thought about why he didn’t move into a place by himself when he definitely could’ve afforded it. He had lived alone in LA after law school, but all he ever did in that apartment was sleep, lie awake thinking he should be sleeping, and occasionally bring a girl home – he rarely saw daylight outside of the office. At first, West Covina had been the same, and he’d been able to convince himself for a while that was fine. But the lies he told himself didn’t survive Rebecca – he’d finally said the word _lonely_ to Heather, sobbing on the hood of her car, after years of acting like it somehow didn’t apply to him, and after that he couldn’t shake it. When he went to Guatemala, he spent most of his free time in a shared house on the grounds of the sanctuary, where everyone took turns cooking and there was nearly always someone to sit in silence with and read a book in the evening, and it felt like a vice loosened somewhere inside him.

It had been a strange adjustment, moving back into this apartment after a year away, but he’d known by then what he had to do to make it feel less lonely. He went back to Mountaintop, putting the idea of leaving real estate law altogether on hold, because being a team with Darryl and Bert feels right for now – it feels like he’s finally able to be a good boss there. His own way, not his father’s. He pushed through the inevitable weirdness of seeing Josh and Greg again, because even at the height of the three dates fiasco, he genuinely liked them. (Recently, they got loose enough to really talk about it for the first time – Nathaniel and Josh on wine, Greg on the certainty the two of them would be hazy on the details by the morning – and they were mostly just embarrassed they’d let the whole thing happen at all.) He’d bought Heather a cactus as a thank you for everything, because she seemed like the kind of person who would laugh at him for buying her flowers, and she’d invited him over for tacos with her and Hector and asked him a lot of questions about monkeys. He’d got in touch with Paula to get back into volunteering at the jail, and Josh had recommended a good therapist, and going home to his empty apartment didn’t fill him with cold dread anymore.

After Rebecca had moved in it had shifted again, from neutral to warm, to a feeling he’d never experienced before, comfortable and familiar and reliable. A feeling he could wrap around himself and live inside of.

She’s sitting at her keyboard when he gets home, sheet music and scribble-heavy notebook open in front of her, and she glances up at him with a smile, mid-song. She’s switched on all the Christmas lights and she’s wearing a Stanford water polo sweatshirt, her legs bare and her hair loose, singing soft and self-conscious and for a moment he can’t take his eyes off her. But he doesn’t want to pull her out of the headspace she’s in, peaceful and creative, so he raises his hand in a silent wave, places his keys and gym bag down gently and heads for the shower.

He’s been in there less than a minute when there’s a soft knock at the bathroom door. “Come in,” he says, and she does, stepping through the door then just standing there, completely naked. “Hi,” he says, his throat dry, pushing his wet hair back off his forehead.

“Hi,” she replies, a shy smile pulling at her lips as she curls a strand of her hair around her finger. “How was the gym?”

He reaches around the door of the shower and tugs her in by the hand – she comes willingly, laughing, and winds her hands around his neck, pulling him down to kiss her, scrabbling for purchase as they stand directly under the spray of the shower together. His fingertips dig reflexively into the flesh of her hips as she pulls his lower lip into her mouth and nips it with her teeth, and he pulls back, breathless. “Okay, slow down,” he says, and she pouts, trailing her index finger from his collarbone to his belly button, making his muscles jump. He catches her hand and places it flat on his chest. “I actually do need to shower,” he says. “I’m disgusting.”

“You are a lot of things,” she says, reaching for his shower gel and squeezing some into her hand. “Disgusting doesn’t make the list.” She rubs her hands together, lathering the shower gel, then makes a ‘spin’ motion with her finger. He turns his back on her obediently. “You’ll have to do your own hair,” she says as her hands land on his back, “because there’s no room in here for a step stool.”

He laughs, then she starts making firm circles on his back, and his head drops forward, all the air rushing out of him at once as she soothes his aching muscles. She lets out a little _oh_ of surprise, like she wasn’t expecting the response, and keeps going – she works her way around his shoulders, down his back, then pauses for a beat before guiding his back under the spray to rinse off. She bends down and gets his shampoo, hands it to him, and as he starts shampooing his hair she turns him round with a hand on his arm. Her pupils are blown wide when their eyes meet, and he tilts his head back under the stream of water, rinsing his hair off and pushing it back off his forehead as her gaze wanders down his body and back up, her lip pulled between her teeth.

They’re both less patient face to face – his hands are restless by his sides, wanting to tangle in her hair and sink into the flesh of her hips, and it’s impossible for either of them to miss how aroused he is, but she does her best, working her soapy hands from his neck down to his pecs, his ribs. Then she takes a half step closer and glides her hands down his sides and his resolve cracks somewhere around his hipbones. He surges forward, winding a hand into her hair, and pulls her body flush with his, tilting her head back. She moans appreciatively into the kiss, her hands gripping his hips hard.

It’s a hungry kiss at first – she’s full of desperate energy, like she’s been waiting for this. His hand slides up and down her back, warm and slick and curved into him, and the pace shifts, turns slow and languid. She slips a hand between them, wraps it tight around him and starts slow, torturous little movements that make his legs feel instantly less solid. He groans, backs her up against the tile and pushes her hair to the side, kissing from her jaw down her collarbone.

“Rebecca,” he murmurs, rocking a little into her hand.

“Mmm?”

“You feel…” He momentarily loses the power of speech as she slips her free hand between his legs, her fingers sliding backward, exploring. He drops his forehead against the tile, breathing hard as the sensation fires through him, coming to life at the press of her fingers and sending sparks out in every direction. He inhales a helpless little gasp, his hips jolting forward.

“I feel…?” she prompts, her voice low with arousal but undeniably amused.

“Smug, apparently,” he replies. Ignoring how wrecked his voice sounds, he grabs her wrists, and she laughs and wriggles against him as he pins them against the wall. “Okay?” he asks, flexing his fingers around her wrists.

“Mmhmm.” She pulls her lip between her teeth and arches against him. “Have I ever told you,” she begins, and he can tell it’s taking some effort to string so many words together, “how much I used to think about this?” She struggles just enough against his grip to demonstrate what she means, and it sends a thrill up his spine that makes answering her impossible. “Your hands around my wrists like this?”

He shakes his head, a low ache throbbing through him.

“Ever since the… Day in the conference room?” she says, and there’s a little smile on her lips.

A moan breaks free from his chest as he drops his mouth down to hers, keeping her wrists pinned tight against the tile as he kisses her. He _hadn’t_ held her wrists that time – _on purpose_ – because the feeling of her knees either side of his hips and her weight pressing down on him, despite how completely absurd the situation had been, even though she was literally trying to stab him with a pen at the time, had lit a flame somewhere inside him that he was desperately trying to avoid feeding. And this – he squeezes her wrists tight and she arches against him – would not have done him any good on that front.

Not that he managed to avoid thinking about it – after the night in the elevator, it had made frequent appearances in his dreams. And, as much as he tried to think about anything else, in his showers.

Finally, he manages to say, “I did too. In here, actually.”

Her eyes widen and he lets go of one wrist to bring his hand between them, pressing between her legs – she does a little heel-toe sidestep with both feet to open herself up to him, and he slides his fingers into the space she’s made. There’s a soft _thud_ as her head drops back against the wall. He peppers kisses along her cheekbone as an apology, and her free hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, anchoring herself. She pulls tight around his fingers when they slip inside, her hips pushing forward, releasing a soft _ahh_ sound that fizzes from the base of his neck right down his spine. Taking a deep breath of steamy air, he tightens his grip on her wrist, and she grinds against the heel of his hand, her fingernails digging into the muscle of his shoulder. She’s already closer than he would’ve expected, her breaths coming quick and shallow as she moves against him. He picks up the pace, and her movements get jerky and loose, and she comes apart beautifully, the intense furrow in her brow melting away, her lips falling open as she flutters and dissolves around him with a low moan – he releases his grip on her wrist and she wraps both arms around his neck, holding tight and breathing hard. He holds her steady at her waist, kissing the top of her head while she floats down.

“Fuck,” she breathes.

Then she switches the shower off, grabs his hand, and she’s pulling him down onto the bed on top of her a second later. He grabs a condom from the nightstand, rolls it on, and sinks into her. She’s tight and warm around him, her skin still slick from the shower and her limbs still loose from the orgasm, and she lets out a long, slow breath as she adjusts, nuzzling into his shoulder. He holds still, breathing through the sensory overload and the way it’s tugging deep in his chest – she wraps a leg around his and shifts a little, tilting her hips up to bring him in deeper, and he kisses her cheek, nosing at her hair. “Hey,” she whispers, her hand sliding up to his face, ghosting fingertips along his cheekbone. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies, pushing up onto his forearms to look at her, pushing her wet hair back behind her ear. She’s left all the Christmas lights on, and they sparkle in her eyes and the droplets of water on her skin. “I was thinking on the way here…” It’s hard to form sentences in his one-track mind, never mind force them out of his mouth, but he’s started now, and her face is all shining curiosity, like she wants to hear the end. “About home. About how this feels like home.” He means here, the apartment, West Covina, the heat of her body around his, but as her legs wrap around his back and pull him into her, the words vanish.

She’s laser focused on him as he fucks her, her voice low in his ear and her hands everywhere, fingernails trailing along his skin, driving him higher and higher nearly every way she knows how. Before long he’s pulled rubber-band tight, clinging to the very edges of control with his face buried in her neck, and her lips brush against his ear and she sighs his name, digging her nails into the base of his back, and he’s breaking apart, soaring – he loses all touch with the room around them as his hips jolt out of his control, the air disappearing from his lungs and electric heat surging from his body to hers, her name tumbling from his lips in a trembling groan.

He has the presence of mind – only just – to avoid dropping his full weight onto her, but she tugs him down anyway, holding his head against her shoulder as his breaths slowly start to even out. When he can think again, he feels her hand in his hair, fingertips soft on his scalp, and her warm lips press against his forehead. He shifts his weight off her, rolling onto his side, and when her eyes meet his they’re shining with tears. “That was really nice,” she says, before he can ask. “What you said. I feel that way too. I’ve never…” She takes a shaking breath, squeezes her eyes shut. “It’s never been like that before.”


	10. Thursday December 10th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca & Nathaniel spend the first evening of Hanukkah with Naomi, which goes fine until it doesn't.

“Carbs fried in olive oil are part of the whole thing,” she says, twisting the stem of her fancy first class wine glass between her fingers and looking at him nervously. “So get used to that idea, because my mother will insist.”

“I’m aware,” he says delicately, taking a sip from his own glass.

She cringes, staring out the plane window at the carpet of cloud beneath them, breathing slow and deliberate, and reminds herself that she can do this. She was clear with her mom about her boundaries. When Naomi gives her unsolicited life advice on the phone, she gets one warning before Rebecca hangs up and they don’t talk for a week. Rebecca has resisted every guilt trip Naomi has thrown her way about coming home for holidays, and suggested this trip before she got the chance. She’s doing so much better, but right now she’s warring constantly against the urge to try to prepare Nathaniel, and she hates that she doesn’t know if she’s trying to protect him from Naomi or coach him into looking as impressive as possible.

Doctor Akopian told her when they talked about this in therapy that it’s normal to get nervous before bringing a partner home to meet parents. This feeling is nothing to be afraid of, not a sign she’s backsliding or that she can’t handle the reality of a serious relationship. She is strong, and capable, and sometimes strong and capable people get nervous about this kind of thing.

Her eyes find their way back to Nathaniel, and he’s looking evenly back at her. Hating herself for it before it’s even out of her mouth, she suggests, “Compliment her decorative soaps.”

* * *

They stand outside her mother’s house, the sky a deep, inky blue and the air beautifully chilly around them, frost crisp under their feet. Nathaniel is exactly as handsome as she imagined he would be in a wool coat, the scarf she bought him tucked around his neck, and he catches her at her elbow with a gloved hand as she raises a hand toward the door. “Hey,” he says, his voice quiet. She looks up at him and he takes a deep breath, holds it until she does the same, and they breathe out together, long and slow, their breath forming a frosty cloud that dissipates into the air around them. Feeling marginally steadier, she takes his hand, prays for her mother to at least be fully dressed, and knocks.

The door swings open unnervingly quickly, like she’s been waiting behind it, and not for the first time Rebecca marvels at how her mother somehow fills up the entire space with her tiny frame as she looks between the two of them. “You’re right on time!” she says, smiling broadly. To Nathaniel, she adds, “Which I can only assume is down to your influence, because my Becca has never been on time in her life – even her birth was -”

“We got _so_ lucky with the traffic from the airport,” Rebecca says with a bright smile, stepping determinedly across the threshold, forcing her mother to take a half step back to avoid being shoved out of the way. She drops her suitcase right inside the door and pulls Naomi into a hug, which she reciprocates after a beat, lithe arms wrapping around her then springing off again as her attention shifts to Nathaniel.

He drops his bag by Rebecca’s, and she squeezes his wrist nervously as she says, “Mom, this is Nathaniel – I mean, obviously you’ve met, kind of, but um…”

He puts her out of her misery, stepping forward before anyone mentions the rehearsal dinner or the wedding that wasn’t, grasping Naomi’s hand and leaning down to kiss her cheek. “It’s great to see you again,” he says, and Rebecca smiles a little as she realises how rarely she hears his lawyer voice these days. “I hope you’re well?”

“Of course I’m well,” Naomi says, head tilted and smile sharp, dialling her charm right up. “I’m just so happy to have my little girl home for at least part of the holiday.” His eyebrows raise very slightly at the obvious jibe, but she breezes on, “Can I take your coats? Would you like a drink? Come in, sit down, make yourselves at home,” and takes off down the hall.

Rebecca drops her face to her hands and groans.

* * *

Naomi is on reasonably good behaviour while they eat dinner and light the menorah. Rebecca mouths her way through the blessing, barely moving her lips and producing no sound at all, and Naomi nudges her in the ribs with her elbow but doesn’t push it. Eagle eyed, she catches Nathaniel’s flash of discomfort with the latkes and says, “The calories? I know – I can tell you take good care of that body. That’s a low carb physique if I ever saw one.” She monologues for a while about the diet she’ll go on after the holiday, and Nathaniel flashes an apologetic look in Rebecca’s direction, but she doesn’t mind. In any interaction with her mother, it’s only a matter of time before she starts giving a rundown of what she eats and how she expels it. She tunes it out, and enjoys the food.

With the menorah flickering in the window and Naomi asking Nathaniel twenty questions about breakfast smoothies, Rebecca brings her suitcase into the living room and starts digging through it for Naomi’s gift. It was supposed to be on top, but then she kept forgetting things and removing things and rearranging things, and by the time she’s unearthed it, she’s kneeling on the floor in front of Nathaniel with a not-insignificant pile of clothing at her side.

“Of course, there’s no need to repack all your things,” her mom begins as she starts shoving them back in. “If you just stayed here, then you could -”

“Our hotel is booked, mom,” she says, rolling a sweater into a ball and shoving it into the case. “You can stop that.”

“Stop _what_?” Naomi says, all wounded innocence. “Stop extending a gracious invitation to my daughter and her ex-boss slash boyfriend to stay in my house, when I haven’t seen her in almost a year and it’s the first night of Hanukkah?”

Rebecca rolls her eyes to the ceiling, opening her mouth to respond, then Nathaniel’s hands land on her shoulders and squeeze lightly. “We appreciate the offer,” he says.

“No you don’t,” Naomi says. “But at least one of you knows when it’s polite to lie.”

Rebecca spins to defend him, but Nathaniel just smiles, and he and Naomi stare each other out for a couple of seconds in silence. Then, her eyes crinkling in a smile, Naomi says, “Let me just go get your gifts from my bedroom. You know, I still keep them in a secret hidey-hole because little Becca was always so nosy.” She stands and leans forward, tapping Rebecca affectionately on the cheek before disappearing from the room.

Rebecca leans back against Nathaniel’s legs, his knees pressing into her shoulder blades, and gazes at the twin flicker of the flames in the window, peaceful and hopeful. This is going as well as she could’ve expected without her mother transforming into a different person, she reasons. “She can be kind of a whirlwind,” she says, her voice so low and quiet it’s practically inaudible, because eavesdropping is prime among Naomi’s talents.

“I’d noticed,” Nathaniel replies, matching her volume. His fingers comb through her hair and she leans back into the touch, sighing. “You um -” he hesitates, and there’s a smile in his voice when he finishes, “- you have that in common.”

She snorts a laugh and bats his leg.

They exchange gifts. Unable to take the weird tension she’s built up around them for some reason, Rebecca hands Naomi the earrings first. She opens the gift wrap delicately, and Rebecca watches her closely, as if she’s ever made any real attempt to conceal a reaction. She smiles when she opens the box, holds them up to the light to watch them sparkle, and says they’re very nice. Rebecca feels the air whoosh out of her lungs, the anti-climax a relief.

Naomi bought Nathaniel some fancy cologne, and tells him as he opens it that it was the one a nice-smelling man working in the perfume department was wearing the day she went shopping. “If Becky wasn’t attached I would’ve got his number for her,” she says fondly. “They can make pretty good commission you know, those salespeople, and he was very handsome. You can tell when a person has good DNA.”

“ _Mom_!”

“What? You are, and so I didn’t – that doesn’t mean this one can’t smell like him. He has good DNA too,” she adds, reaching over and nudging Nathaniel’s arm. “Look at those cheekbones.”

Failing to suppress a smirk, he sprays the cologne on the back of his hand and presents it to Rebecca, and after glaring at Naomi for a second, she leans in and sniffs. It suits him annoyingly well.

“See?” Naomi says, before she has a chance to say a word.

She opens the gift her mom passes her – it’s a crystal hair comb, wintery and sparkly and subtly ornate, and as she lifts it out of the box Naomi says, “You have that big charity ball coming up, right? You see? I listen when you tell me things. Your hair is getting so long now you’ll need someone to put it up for you, so just give this to them and they’ll make it -”

Rebecca cuts her off with a hug. “Thanks, mom,” she says, soft and happy, squeezing her tight. “This is really beautiful.”

* * *

They play Scrabble at the dining room table, and Nathaniel’s competitive streak seems to appeal to Naomi – she leans into him as she speaks, touching his arm and laughing, oscillating between wildly inappropriate anecdotes about Rebecca’s life and straight up flirtation, and he weathers it all with a grace that lets Rebecca relax into her chair and just play the game.

Sure, it would be better if her mother wasn’t recounting her sexual history to her boyfriend as if she was a character on some scandalous cable TV show, but that’s not the mother she has.

Toward the end of the game, when the board is frustratingly crowded and the remaining letters frustratingly obscure, Naomi turns to Rebecca as Nathaniel considers his tiles. “It’s good to see you so happy, honey,” she says, leaning in to touch her arm, and it’s everything Rebecca has ever wanted her to hear – the words feel warm and bright in her chest, and her hand comes up to rest over her heart. She’s about to open her mouth to say something in response, when Naomi, oblivious, continues, “You’re settling down, ready to have a family…”

She feels the smile die on her face as the overwhelming thing in her chest that had been happiness sours and drops into her stomach, a dead weight. “I’m what,” she says blankly.

In her peripheral vision, Nathaniel’s eyes dart to her, but she can’t look at him.

“Well,” Naomi says airily. “Your business isn’t what I would have chosen for you, but it’s going well, you’ve been working hard at all your -” she gestures vaguely at the air around Rebecca’s head, “- your therapy. Taking your medicine. You’re in this settled relationship with this wonderful young man, you’re spending the holidays together. It’s your time.”

Rebecca blinks, her brow furrowed. “My time to…”

Finally catching up to the shift in her daughter’s mood, Naomi waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I’m not about to inseminate you, Rebecca, but life doesn’t wait around forever for you to make a decision, and now is the right time for you. So I want to be a grandmother before I die, sue me.”

Rebecca stands, her chair scraping back across the dining room floor. She stares at her mother, determinedly avoiding looking at Nathaniel although she can see that he’s trying to lean toward her, to catch her attention. “I – sorry, I’m just – I need to um -” she says, then gives up and just walks out of the room, sparing the briefest, vaguest thought for the conversation she’s left Nathaniel to navigate alone.

Like she has a million times in her life, she shuts herself in her mother’s bathroom, slides down the door onto the tile, hands over her face, and cries.

* * *

She’s silent practically the whole way to the hotel in the taxi, barely registers how ridiculously opulent and sparkly everything is as they go through the lobby and Nathaniel speaks to the receptionist, then they’re walking through the door of their hotel room, his hand between her shoulder blades. “It’s fine,” she says, the moment she’s in the door, completely ignoring the kid in the uniform who drops their bags off – Nathaniel hands over a folded bill and a quiet word of thanks as she leaves. “It’s fine, that was nothing, and I don’t know why I’m making it so weird, and we can just pretend it didn’t happen and just – just be here together.”

Except she still can’t quite look at him, and she’s not sure why.

“Rebecca,” he says gently.

“I can’t,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut tight and pressing the heels of her hands into them until she sees stars. “I just. I can’t right now. I’m sorry. I know you’ve paid for this fancy hotel and everything’s all Christmassy and beautiful, and I know I’m ruining it, and -”

“Rebecca, stop. Please.”

She stops. She drops down to sit on the bed, burying her nose in the soft wool scarf still wrapped around her neck, breathing hard. She still can’t make eye contact with Nathaniel, but she lets herself watch the familiar rhythm of his movements as he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the rack behind the door. He holds his scarf in both hands for a couple of seconds, just squeezing the fabric, then folds it and places it on top of the dresser. He carries her suitcase to her side of the bed, crouches down in front of it. “Okay if I open this?” he asks, and she nods. He finds the blue cotton pyjamas she packed, puts them down on the bed beside her, then kisses the top of her head and disappears into the bathroom.

She changes for bed, slips under the covers, switching the overhead light for the soft glow of the lamp over the bed, and she does what she should’ve done in the first place. Lying flat on her back, she places both hands below her belly button and takes slow, deep breaths, counting each one in and out, feeling them from her head to her toes. She tells herself _I am in control of my actions_. _This feeling doesn’t scare me_. She doesn’t quite believe it, because she doesn’t quite know what the feeling is yet, but it’s enough for now – when Nathaniel comes to bed and gets in beside her, her eyes meet his. “I’m sorry,” she says again, calmer.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry she said that. Are you okay?”

“I think I just need to sleep now.”

“Okay.” He clicks the lamp off and shuffles toward her, slipping an arm under her neck, and she curls against him. “She does love you,” he says quietly. “Just… Not in a way that’s any use to you.” She can hear the weary experience in his voice – she fists a hand in the fabric of his t-shirt, closing her eyes. He holds her protectively, his arms warm around her, and she lets his breaths soothe her to something like sleep.


	11. Friday December 11th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca is spiralling.

She’s awake all at once when her eyes open, as if somebody had screamed right in her ear. Nathaniel is breathing deep and slow behind her, his arm thrown loosely around her waist, his knees tucked into the back of hers. His body is warm around her, and usually she loves these rare moments of being awake when he’s asleep and cuddly, but she’s too restless to linger. She slides out from his embrace, tucks the comforter around him as gently as she can, and goes to the window. The city is outlined with frost, and she itches to go out onto the terrace, to feel the frozen bite of the concrete on the soles of her feet, but she knows opening the door to the cold would wake Nathaniel – he is so ridiculously Southern Californian about the weather. Instead, she leans against the window, forehead on her arm, and watches the tiny people rushing around on the street below. She was one of them, once.

It’s taken her so long to learn to stand still.

She hears him shift in the bed behind her, hears the sweep of his arm across the place where he’s expecting her to be, and then he’s sitting up quickly. “I’m here,” she says automatically, going over to sit facing him, his thigh warm against hers through the sheets

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says. He brings a hand up to her hair, tucks a strand behind her ear and holds her cheek in his palm. “How are we doing?”

She really thinks about it, but it’s a difficult question when she isn’t clear yet what happened in the first place. “I feel okay,” she says eventually. “A little… Rattled? But I’m okay. And I just want to have a nice day with you. Some Christmas shopping, a walk in the park, like two normal people who have never met Naomi Bunch.”

He nods slowly. “Okay then. Let’s do it.”

* * *

It takes her until lunch to figure out what she’s freaking out about. Characteristically undignified, it hits her in a restaurant bathroom as she’s scrolling through Instagram on the toilet. She’s all caught up on George’s cat videos and Valencia’s selfies, then she’s just scrolling aimlessly through the stuff she’s already seen, and she arrives at the picture Darryl posted of Nathaniel holding Ella. Something squeezes tight in her chest – it hurts in a way that is neither entirely pleasant nor entirely unpleasant, then her heart starts to jackhammer against her ribs. His smile, loose and a little exasperated, the easy way his arms cradle the baby’s tiny frame… The image tugs something inside her now that it hadn’t the first time, brings her back to a memory of a dream, of watching dream Rebecca standing over a crib.

God, she had _wanted it_ in that moment. The baby, the life with him, the way his hand had been reluctant to leave the firm swell of her stomach. How happy he had been. As she stood watching herself, she’d ached with delight and anticipation and longing. She’d wished she could stay long enough to see the baby, and she had known that if she chose him – and of course she would choose him, choose this – then she would. And then dream Rebecca’s face had gone terrifyingly blank, three times over, and she had invested so much time in learning not to idealise those potential futures that she has no idea now whether she wants any of it, whether she ever did.

She’s living in that apartment now, where the dream ghost vision set her future with Nathaniel. The stage is set. And she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know if it’s something she can give to him. She doesn’t know if those dreams were things she wanted or things she knew she was supposed to want.

She squeezes her eyes shut and imagines Nathaniel holding a bouncing baby with his clear blue eyes, imagines curling up against him on the sofa with their kid in her arms, how soft and reverent his eyes would go as he kissed its sleeping forehead. It’s beautiful, all of it, and panic rises up in her throat.

She thought she was done discovering huge, terrifying gaps in her own knowledge of herself. How can this be a thing she doesn’t know?

Just as the tears start blurring her vision, a text comes through from Nathaniel: _Your food is here – are you okay?_

Dazed, she pulls herself together, and goes back to lunch.

* * *

She can tell he’s worried, but she feels so detached, like she’s watching herself in a montage sequence in a movie. They go for a walk in Central Park, her hand tucked into his elbow, everything sparkling with frost, and when they kiss, his nose is freezing cold against her cheek. He wraps his arms around her and holds her gently, like something he’s afraid to break, presses his lips against her forehead. He asks her if there’s anything she wants to talk about. He tells her multiple times that her mother shouldn’t have said what she said, but all her brain hears is that he isn’t saying she was wrong. He tries and tries, and she knows there’s only so much of this he’ll take before he loses patience with her, and she knows she’s ruining everything, but the runaway train got a head start and she can’t find a place to jump off.

Would he leave, if she didn’t want a baby?

 _Does she_?

They’ve wandered to the barrier around the edge of the ice rink, and he’s looking at her, concern and expectation all over his face – she realises too late he must be expecting a response to something he said. “Sorry,” she says, apprehensive, no idea what she missed. “I was um…”

“Wrackspurts got you?” he asks, eyebrows quirking up, and warm relief floods her at the familiar territory. She laughs, and he hooks a finger under her chin and kisses her. “I said it is absurdly cold here and I don’t know how you survived so long.”

“Insulation,” she says automatically, prodding his abs through his many layers. “Bagels. Solid food.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulder, and she leans into him, watching the rink. She always wanted to go ice skating in winter when she lived here, or she wanted to be the kind of person who did things like that, anyway. But she had no friends, and no time, and she was always so anxious she had no space in her head for whimsy, until she moved across the country to chase happiness in the form of Josh Chan. “I can’t believe Josh ever lived here,” she muses aloud.

Nathaniel hums in agreement. “I can’t believe you did.”

She pulls back to look at him. “Really?”

He shrugs. “The day I met you, you were wearing a bathing suit clearly designed for children, skipping work to go to a waterpark with the human embodiment of a flip flop -” smiling, she holds up a warning finger “- who turned out to be a decent guy, just not the brightest bulb on the tree.” She laughs, slipping her hand into his, and he puts them both in his coat pocket. “You seem like LA to me,” he says quietly.

“Hot and uncultured?” Rebecca says, smirking, squeezing his hand inside his pocket.

He rolls his eyes. “ _No_. Sunny and… Unironically enthusiastic. And – I don’t know. It’s more than that. There’s more to it than the parts everyone thinks they know. And it’s better, when you know that. Nobody can just be theme parks and Boba. LA is home.”

“That’s really sweet,” she says softly, leaning her head against his arm. The tips of her ears are so cold they’re starting to sting, the air too cold to breathe through her nose comfortably, and Nathaniel is shivering a little, but it’s weirdly hypnotic watching people skating in circles. She watches a laughing couple swing a tiny kid between their arms; two teenagers who look like they’re on a first date, awkwardly taking each other’s hands; a group of girls who are definitely best friends all clutching each other’s arms in a line, giggling. “You might be New York,” she says.

Sceptically, he says, “You hated New York.”

She shrugs. “Not really. I hated the idea of New York. I saw all the worst parts of myself reflected back and never looked any closer, because it was easier that way. To think I could just cut and run and leave myself behind.” She sighs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, thinking about it. “New York rewards you for slowing down and paying attention and looking past the parts everybody sees. For knowing where to sit on the subway to end up right at the stairs, and having a coffee place where you’re a regular and the owner knows your order.” He says nothing, and she scrunches her nose and adds, “I meant that as a compliment.”

Laughing, he kisses the top of her head, shifting them so she’s against his chest, her hands coming up to hold the lapels of his coat as his wrap around her back, and she wills herself to just let this be enough. To know that right now he’s laughing and he’s holding her, and he thinks she’s sunny, and even thinks it’s okay when she’s not. She wants to take his hand and ask him to go ice skating with her, because she always wanted to. But she knows herself, and she knows she can’t take a _no_ right now without going all the way off the rails, so she links her arm back through his and they keep walking.

* * *

The cabin is two storeys, a lot of pine and a lot of windows. The sky is pitch black by the time they arrive, the ground crisp and frosty. Nathaniel punches the code into the keypad by the door and pushes it open, gesturing Rebecca inside, and her mouth falls open, her eyes going wide. “Oh,” she whispers, reaching for his hand. He laces his fingers through hers and squeezes, and she looks up at him, starry eyed. “Oh, Nathaniel, this… This is beautiful.”

He’s had a Skype tour and exchanged a lot of texts with the housekeeper, so he has a good idea of what to expect, but it is kind of breathtaking, especially the way she looks around like she’s walked into a fairytale, and for a moment it makes him feel like they might be okay. Everything is lit soft and golden – it makes the pine walls feel warm and inviting in a way that reminds him just how much he never liked his parents’ place in the Hamptons. He leads her into the kitchen first, where there’s a bottle of champagne waiting in an ice bucket on the counter. “Is this magic?” she asks, prodding it as if it might pop out of existence.

“I want to say yes,” he says, “but actually the housekeeper left about thirty minutes ago. There were instructions.”

He shows her the living room, presses a button on a remote control that makes the fire flicker to life in the wood burning fireplace. She grabs his hand in both of hers, whirling round to face him. “Nathaniel. This is perfect.”

“Well, almost,” he says, and tugs on her hand. “Come on.”

He opens the sliding doors to the terrace at the back of the house to show her the hot tub, tucked in a private corner under a canopy of twinkle lights. Rebecca actually squeals, and his heart soars. Upstairs, there’s a bouquet of roses on the dresser, and he points to the ceiling – she looks up to see the clear, starry sky through the skylight and sighs, falling back onto the bed to stare at it. He settles beside her, holding her hand. The silence is pleasant at first, then it isn’t – the change in Rebecca’s energy is abrupt and contagious. “Are you okay?” he asks nervously, his voice hanging above them in the silence. He turns his head to look at her, and her expression is bleak, her eyes are shining with tears, her hand resting below her ribs. “Rebecca,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing,” she says, too quickly and too defensively.

He bites down on his lip and looks away.


	12. Saturday December 12th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca & Nathaniel discuss the baby question.

She’s restless all night and pricklier than ever in the morning. He showers first, and when he comes downstairs she’s in the kitchen, buttering a toasted bagel. He reaches around her to grab a mug, and she mutters, “If you’re here to judge my breakfast choices, save it.”

Maybe it’s because he’s still tired, or maybe it’s because waiting her out is getting him nowhere, but he groans in exasperation. “Come _on,_ Rebecca. I’m here to make coffee. Is it okay if I do that?”

She turns on her heel and leaves the kitchen, leaving her half buttered bagel on the counter, and he drops his head back, staring at the ceiling. He really does not know what’s going on. He knows her mom upset her with the comment about starting a family. He thinks it was worse because it had been going well, because she was relaxed and having a good time, all her walls down, and because she thought her mom was saying something nice until it turned out she wasn’t. But he has no idea how that landed them here, why she’s angry with him, why she hasn’t so much as admitted anything is wrong.

He finishes making his coffee and drinks half of it in one gulp, then leaves it beside her bagel and follows her into the living room. She’s standing perfectly still in the middle of the room, and she blinks at him when he walks in, looking startled. She has the keys to their rental car in her hand. He gestures to them. “What are those for?”

“Do you want them?” she shoots back immediately, an edge of panic in her voice as her fingers tighten around the keys.

“What? No, of course not. Where would I possibly be -” But he shuts up, cuts himself off, because she’s wrapping her arms tight around herself, curling into herself with her chin to her chest, and there’s no point in trying to logic her out of anything when she’s in this state. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, slow breath, rerouting his brain. He reaches for the car keys, and she flinches as he steps toward her. Stung, he takes the keys and drops them onto the end table, then takes a couple of steps back. When he speaks, it’s a courtroom voice, not exactly gentle but steady, and it’s going to have to do for now. “Rebecca,” he says. “I have no idea what’s going on. I need you to help me out here. I get that your mom upset you with the baby comment, but this is more than that, and I don’t know what it is.” Adrenaline is steadily building now, anxiety fluttering in his stomach, so he has to fight each word to keep it from coming out like an accusation. The result is that his voice sounds strained, like he’s pushing it through too small an opening. “I want to understand.”

She looks up at him through her eyelashes, her body language all apprehension, and his heart thuds too hard and too high in his chest, constricting his throat. When she speaks, her voice is tiny. “It’s just – we’re _supposed_ to have a baby.”

He blinks, frowning. “What? Because your mom said so?”

Her fingernails dig into her arms, and he curls his hands into fists to stop them from reaching out and smoothing over the marks she’s making. “No,” she says quietly, looking down. “I had this – this um -” A thoughtful little furrow appears between her eyebrows, then she shakes off the thought and her eyes meet his. “In New York, when all I did was whatever would make my mom happy, it was a given, obviously. Then when I moved to West Covina, having kids was part of how I imagined I would be happy when I was with Josh.” In a rush, she adds, “I used to google pictures of Jewish Filipino babies and just look at them and, like, _imagine_.”

He bites back the _of course you did_ that’s on the tip of his tongue, because she’s looking at him defiantly, waiting for it, and he isn’t about to live down to her lowest expectations. He offers a tiny nod instead, and her expression loosens, giving way to something tremulous and dejected. “Then when I was at my lowest point,” she continues, her voice starting to tremble, “when I got my diagnosis and started doing therapy basically full time, I thought I couldn’t.” She takes a shaky gulp of air. “Between the genetic link and how miserable and broken I was, how much I fucked up everything I ever touched, I just couldn’t even think about it anymore, and then I felt so guilty about Hebby…”

His stomach twists in response to that. Gently, he says, “You’re not broken, Rebecca. And you don’t fuck up everything.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, blinking away tears. “Yeah, I think I know that now.”

“And Hebby is…” He doesn’t even know where to begin telling her that Hebby is incredible, the sweetest little girl, that Darryl will never, ever stop being grateful.

But she nods anyway, tightening her grip on her arms. “I know,” she whispers. She takes a deep breath, then another, closing her eyes, pressing a hand to her mouth, and for a second she looks like she might throw up. “I don’t even know if you want kids,” she says, her hand still over her lips like she’s trying to stop the words from coming out. “I’ve been too afraid to ask.” His lips part a little, stunned, and the air around her vibrates with panic as the words continue to tumble out of her, her eyes squeezed shut. “And I don’t know if I do either, which is terrifying, because it feels like the kind of thing I’m supposed to know about myself – I always _did_ know, one way or the other, and I somehow didn’t really know that I didn’t know anymore until my mom said that – and I was so sure that if we were together I would have a baby with you but now I don’t know if I wanted it or if I just bought the story that I was supposed to want it, and I don’t know if you want it either, and now I can’t think about anything else and I’m so scared, and I’m ruining our vacation and we didn’t even go ice skating, because I’ve always been too crazy to -”

Her voice falls apart – if there was more to that thought, it gets lost in the breath she gasps in and the helpless sob she releases straight after. He can’t stop himself from reaching for her anymore – he stretches a hand toward her and she stumbles into him, throwing her arms around his neck. He scoops her up into his arms and drops down onto the sofa with her legs thrown over his lap. She grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and sobs into his shoulder, her tears soaking through the fabric, her whole body shaking in his arms. He holds her tight, his hands spread wide and his lips pressed to the top of her head as she cries it out, something fiercely protective expanding inside him, pushing aside the frustration he’d felt before so all he can think about is holding her tight enough to keep her safe. He stays quiet and mostly still, just rubbing gently at her arm until he thinks she’s crested the wave – she’s starting to sniffle, taking deep, shaky breaths that fight their way inside him and form an aching lump in his throat. “I want _you_ ,” he says quietly. She doesn’t respond, but she stills, listening, her fingers wound tight around the fabric of his t-shirt, and the knowledge she’s clinging to every word makes his heart pound in his ears. “I don’t know about anything else. I _could_ want kids, maybe, if it was right for us, but if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t.” He noses at her hair, closing his eyes as they start to sting. “I want this,” he says, his voice coming out a gravelly whisper. “Me and you. Everything else is… Everything else.” She flattens her hand on his chest, warm and comforting and right over his heart, and he pulls in a quick, shaky breath and kisses the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. “I love you, Rebecca.”

She presses her forehead hard into his shoulder. “I love you too,” she whispers back.

After, she says she needs to look like a human and disappears upstairs to shower, and while she’s gone he washes his face and changes his t-shirt so he isn’t obviously tear-stained when she comes back. He lights the fire, finishes buttering her bagel, and he’s stirring hot chocolate on the stove when she comes back downstairs and wraps her arms around his waist from behind. “Is that hot chocolate?” she asks, her cheek pressed against his back.

“It is,” he replies. “You take your bagel and get settled, I’ve got this.”

She’s in the armchair by the fire when he comes back, wrapped in a furry blanket, staring into the flames. “You’re looking especially Gryffindor,” he says, and she looks up and sticks her tongue out at him.

He hands her a mug, and she wraps her hands around it, sighing, sniffing at the chocolatey steam. She raises her eyebrows at him as he sits down on the sofa with his own. “You’re doing dairy?”

“No,” he replies. “And neither are you. It’s almond milk. Real chocolate, though.”

She hums, shifting her legs up onto the chair and leaning sideways against the back, looking at him. Her expression is wide open for the first time since Scrabble at her mom’s place, her eyes soft and wide and hopeful. “You would be an amazing dad,” she says, and it tugs somewhere deep in his chest that she’s thought about it. That she thinks he could be good, even though they both know what kind of example he had.

“Thank you,” he says softly. Then, to distract from the real danger of crying again, he adds, “I would also make an excellent rich uncle.”

She laughs, but there’s something sad about it, something guarded. “No siblings,” she says. “Well, Tucker, but he’s in New Mexico and he’s a child and we have _almost_ no relationship, so he doesn’t really count…”

“Excuse me, have you met your friends?” he says, eyebrows raised. “Have you met Darryl? Josh? Are you aware of Hebby?”

She looks down, smiling into her hot chocolate. She takes a tentative sip, checking the temperature, and sighs appreciatively before taking another drink. “This is really okay with you, isn’t it?” she says, looking back at him curiously.

“It really is,” he replies truthfully. “It was something I assumed I would do, because it’s… It’s what you do. Especially if you’re a _the third_. But I don’t live by those assumptions anymore. This is not a dealbreaker, in any direction.” He lifts his mug to his lips, and it’s worth every mixed feeling he has about consuming this ridiculously sweet, warm cup of calories for the way she smiles, her eyes going bright and sparkly when he takes a sip. “Happy?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” she says softly, like she’s answering a different question. “I’m sorry, Nathaniel,” she says, her eyebrows pulling together. “This conversation should’ve happened before now. I got scared too fast, and I – I couldn’t slow down. Thanks for waiting me out.”

He gets it. How sometimes your parents get under your skin before you can stop them, clawing their way through all your progress and unravelling a spool of your worst insecurities all over the place before you’ve even noticed them arriving. He sets his mug down on the table, and she does too, and they meet in the middle of the room, her warm hands coming up around his neck, winding around to the back of his head and pulling him down to kiss her. Her lips meet his, soft and steady and confident, and it’s only then that he really realises how much anxiety they’ve both been holding – she feels like herself again, loose and comfortable in his arms, and the tension trickles down his spine and out through his feet, planted firm on the plush rug.

She pulls back but stays on her tiptoes, hands on his shoulders and he holds her at her waist to keep her steady. “I brought Boggle,” she says, an eyebrow raised suggestively. “We should totally play Boggle in front of this beautiful wood burning fireplace.”


	13. Sunday December 13th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's snow, & a hot tub, & they get naked.

She wakes slow and sleepy for the first time in a week, rolling over to wrap an arm around Nathaniel’s waist, planting a soft kiss on the back of his neck. His hand encloses hers and holds it against his chest, and there’s some relief in the deep breath he takes that sends a guilty prickle up her spine for creating the emotional minefield he’s been living in the past couple of days. But she tucks herself against his back, the short hair at the back of his head tickling her forehead, and she’s content for the moment just breathing him in as her eyes slowly adjust to the light.

It’s darker than she would expect for how awake she feels, and she looks up at the skylight, taking in the hushed stillness of the air around them. “Oh,” she whispers, pushing herself out of bed all at once and going to the window, throwing open the curtain. “Oh, I thought so!”

It’s been snowing. It still is a little, in large, slowly drifting flakes. Maybe a foot or so has built up already, the trees covered, and soft, rolling drifts on the drive. Captivated, she presses her fingertips against the chilly window, and doesn’t hear Nathaniel get up. But she feels his hand settling soft on her lower back as he steps into her space, and she leans automatically into him, drawn to the warmth of his body. He’s like a furnace when he sleeps. A tall, cuddly furnace. “Look,” she whispers. “It’s perfect. I almost don’t want to touch it.”

“Almost,” he replies, a smile in his voice, and she’s sure he knows what’s coming next, but she’s perfectly happy to be predictable.

“Get dressed!” she says, abandoning the window to start digging through her suitcase for her warmest clothes. “Come on, we have to go step in it!”

They’re at the door a couple of minutes later, and she pauses to just look at him. He’s adorable like this, jeans and boots and a sweater stuffed inside a winter coat, scarf wrapped tight around his neck. His hair is unstyled, and she reaches up to pat it. “I love this puff,” she says, grinning.

He dodges her, batting her hand away. “It is not _puff_ ,” he says, affronted.

She laughs, grabs him by the hand and drags him outside. She stops dead right outside the door, because this is her favourite part – the hush that feels almost supernatural, the clean blanket of fresh snow muffling everything in the prettiest, most magical way. They’re quiet as they walk down the steps, the snow crunching under their feet, two sets of fresh footprints appearing behind them. She twists round to look at them, the way they’re perfectly in step despite his ridiculously long legs, then throws her arms around his waist, looking up at him with her chin on his chest, snowflakes melting as they land on her face. He gazes evenly back at her, a quiet smile on his face, his cheeks turning chilly and pink as his gloved hands glide up and down her arms.

The moment of serenity doesn’t last long, of course, because the temptation of the fresh snow is too much – she smiles back at him a few seconds, then throws herself onto her back and sweeps her arms and legs to make a snow angel, laughing at the incredulous look on his face.

“How are you not freezing down there?” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets and his nose into his scarf.

“Dude, how are you _already cold_? You’ve been outside for like twelve seconds.”

She holds her hands out toward him and he grabs them and hauls her up – she stumbles into him and he catches her against his chest, steadying her before she turns round to look at her handiwork and grins. “Look at Angel Rebecca,” she says. “So innocent.”

He makes a dubious sound and leans around to kiss her cheek. “I don’t see it.”

As payback, or to prove his point, she grabs a handful of snow and stuffs it down the back of his coat, cackles at the extremely undignified sound of protest he makes, and takes off running. She has the element of surprise on her side, but he more than makes up for it in stride length and athletic ability, and his arms are around her shoulders seconds later. She throws herself sideways, tipping them, and giggles helplessly as they fall into the snow. He lands with a soft _oof_ , and grumbles, “Jesus so cold!” before her hands are on his cheeks and her lips are on his and he stops complaining.

* * *

The cabin is so perfectly cosy there are a dozen potential ways to thaw out, but since one of them is a hot tub, she barely considers the others. While Nathaniel is busying around inside, she pulls her hair into a ponytail and undresses, hissing at the way the icy air feels on her bare skin – she’s sensitive and all goosebumps even before she gets in, then the warm, bubbling water covers her body and heightens everything. She’s hung out in Heather’s hot tub a lot, but there’s something so much better about the heat of the water when the air outside is ice cold – she sits up straight to let it chill her shoulders before sinking further in, a soft moan escaping her when the warmth laps around her neck.

She wraps her arms around herself, her fingertips brushing her stomach, and she bites her lip, dropping her head back. She repeats the motion a few times, lost in the shower of tingles that fizz from the chilly crown of her head down her spine, then slips her hand lower, skimming her inner thigh.

“Am I interrupting?” His voice is low, surprised and amused but definitely interested, and she presses her fingers against her clit to catch the thrill that sparks through her at the sound. Her eyes find his and she hums, sits up straight. He holds a glass of champagne out toward her. “Unless your hands are too full…”

“No,” she sighs, taking it. “That can wait, thank you. Get in here.”

He sets the bottle and his own glass down on the shelf at the side as he undresses – he watches her watching him, and she takes a sip of champagne, eyes locked on his as the bubbles sparkle over her tongue. “You know,” she says as he slides in beside her, “I’m surprised you’re not complaining that this is unhygienic.”

“Oh, I absolutely would be,” he replies, taking his glass and clinking it against hers. “Except the housekeeper and I corresponded _a lot_ and I happen to know this is professionally cleaned between bookings.”

She snorts. “You are such a nerd.”

“A nerd who has never had an STD or a gross staph infection or -”

“Okay, okay,” she laughs. “I’m glad you’re here, anyway. And all…” She gestures at his body. “You know. Naked and hot.”

“Mm, am I?” he murmurs, leaning over.

When they kiss, his cold skin against hers makes her tingle, the pleasant pulse of arousal low in her stomach spiking ridiculously at the feel of his tongue trailing her lip, then he pulls back and takes a languid sip of champagne, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “God you’re smug,” she mutters, smiling.

“I am no such thing,” he replies, smugly. He clinks his glass against hers again.

As they sip, she slides her foot over to entwine her leg with his, watching the steam rise in swirls from the water into the frosty air as she savours the sharp sparkle of the champagne. “You’re really beautiful, you know?” he says after a few moments of silence. “And smart, and resilient, and thoughtful…” She turns to look at him, caught off guard by how soft and sincere his expression is, and her cheeks warm. He rests his arm over the back of the hot tub and she shuffles into the seat right beside him, tucking herself under his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. She’d meant to take this slow, but the entire length of her body is pressed to his under the warm water and it’s all kinds of distracting – she squeezes her thighs together and a little whimpering sound escapes her.

He catches it – he tenses minutely at her side for a moment, then relaxes. He starts making tiny circles with his fingertips on her shoulder, then lengthens them, trailing along her collarbone, her neck. She hums, leaning into him and sipping her champagne, the bubbles going straight to her head, making her feel bold and weightless. She lets her free hand drift onto his leg, pressing into firm muscle with her fingertips for a second before sliding it higher. His breath catches as she reaches the top of his thigh, his fingers tightening around her shoulder. She hears the sound of him putting his glass on the shelf, and she downs the rest of her drink before passing the glass to him. He takes it, then reaches around her, shifting her into his lap with her back against his chest. She gasps a surprised little _oh_ as an extra few inches of her body are exposed to the cold, then he has one hand on her hip and one gently cupping the swell of her breast, his lips trailing gentle kisses from behind her ear down to her shoulder.

She sighs appreciatively, reaching back to wind her fingers into his hair. She doesn’t pull, just grips, but competitive as ever, he tweaks her nipple and her back arches in response. “Beautiful,” he murmurs against her neck, shifting his legs so hers land on either side of them, opening her up to him as his hand moves from her hip down between her thighs. Tingling with anticipation, she shifts the angle of her body to brace herself better against his chest, keeping a hand in his hair as his fingertips slide down along the length of her and back, spreading her open.

She drops her head back onto his shoulder, turning to press a kiss under his jaw as he teases around her clit, his fingers exploring her gently, languidly. He’s hard against the base of her back now, but when she starts to turn around he pins her, a finger slipping inside her as his other arm wraps around her waist, securing her against him. Her hand tightens reflexively in his hair, her hips tilting into his hand, and he slides another finger inside her and curls them, the heel of his hand hard and firm on her clit – she leans back, gasping in freezing cold air as the pressure builds and builds. She turns her face into his neck, feeling exposed in a way that amplifies everything – she kisses under his jaw, teeth scraping at his pulse point as she starts to lose control. He catches her lips with his, gives her a quick kiss then starts whispering filth in her ear and she’s flying apart, moaning into the open air with his fingers slowing inside her, stroking her through it.

She slides sideways off his lap, back onto the seat beside him, and his mouth meets hers like he’s been waiting for it, his hand coming up to pull the elastic out of her ponytail and wind into her hair. Still hazy with oxytocin, she lets her hand wander up his thigh again, and he shifts involuntarily forward, gasping against her lips as she takes him in her hand. “Rebecca,” he murmurs, catching her wrist, and she pulls back, hands on his chest. “Can we go inside now?”

They make it as far as the sofa, spread a blanket and a towel over it and she grabs his wallet, slips the condom out of it and rolls it onto him, climbing into his lap and sinking down – they exhale in unison, his arms wrapping tight around her back, hips shifting so her clit lands right on his pelvic bone, the crackling fireplace warming her back. She rests her forehead against his, drinking in the feeling of him warm and solid against her, and when his eyes open his pupils are wide and dark, looking at her with unveiled adoration. He drops his hands, pressing his fingertips into the flesh of her hips, and she rocks against him, and _oh that feels good_. He exhales a little moan against her lips, and she grinds down harder to hear him do it again. “You make the best sounds,” she murmurs, and he replies with a breathy curse that sends heat pooling low in her stomach, winds a hand into her hair and brings her lips to his. She picks up her pace, riding him hard and fast, and he meets her rhythm, nips at her lip with his teeth, and she’s so close, she just needs a little more. Her whine must communicate something, because he slides a hand up to palm her breast, rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and she’s tumbling over, coming so hard her vision whites out, her whole body going tense then melting into him. He follows as she rides it out, the sound he makes coming from deep in his chest, muffled with his mouth on her collarbone.

She drifts down slowly, his fingers skating absently up and down her back.

They clean up a bit and get rid of the condom, then curl on the sofa together, her back against his chest and the blanket thrown over them both. She watches the flames flicker hypnotically in the fireplace, his arms around her, and her eyelids feel so heavy. She lets them fall shut, pulling his arms tight around her, her cheeks warming in the glow of the fire.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low behind her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mmm?”

“Yesterday, when you were – you know.”

“Spiralling?” she supplies.

“Yeah. You said we didn’t even go ice skating… What was that?”

“Oh,” she says, embarrassment flushing up her neck. It’s always uncomfortable, looking back on those moments – usually, she can remember everything she said, but not like she said it. It feels like looking back on a dream, but with a weirdly intense emotional overlay that makes it hard to see the details. “Yeah. I um… I always wanted to, and I never did. I turned it into a whole thing. Kind of like the Raging Waters of winter in New York – a thing that this ideal version of me would do at the romantic climax of my story? And obviously that moment never comes, because people aren’t characters, and there is no ideal me, and life doesn’t have a climax, so…”

“Ah.”

She cringes. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re not,” he says decisively, and noses her hair out of the way to kiss the back of her neck. His fingertips trail lightly up and down her arm, slow and soothing, and as she listens to the logs crackling in the fire her eyes flutter shut again. She’s vaguely aware of him extricating himself from behind her, and the kiss he plants on her forehead. She wishes absently that he wasn’t so nap averse. “Love you,” he whispers, and she smiles as she drifts off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway there! Thank you for being here. Any feedback or notes or chats about any of this (or anything else honestly) always welcome. You can find me on tumblr - I'm eyesontheskyline there too.


	14. Monday December 14th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel has a surprise for Rebecca.

They leave early in the morning. The snow is pretty deep on the ground and slushy on the road, and Nathaniel grips the steering wheel tightly, sitting up straighter in his seat as fresh flakes start falling, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Rebecca watches him, head tilted curiously. He glances at her sideways a couple of times. “What?” he says eventually.

She bites her lip, not quite managing to suppress a smile. “You’re not used to driving in weather, huh?”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, eyes glued to the road.

“Uh huh. Well, if you want to switch, just pull over any time. I lived here, remember.”

He ignores her and she drops it, flipping through channels on the radio then leaning sleepily against the window, but when she looks over at him a couple of miles later his expression is a half-step from terror. “Nathaniel,” she says firmly. “Let me drive.”

His fingers flex, stretching out then gripping the wheel impossibly tighter, his knuckles white. He throws another quick glance in her direction. “You’re not supposed to know where we’re going,” he says. “It’s a surprise.”

She sits up straighter, intrigued. “We’re not going to the airport?”

He frowns. “Not right away.”

“Okay, well… Switch, and just give me directions,” she suggests. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares straight ahead radiating tension, and she rolls her eyes. “Dude, come on, this is torture.”

They switch at the next rest stop – or rather, she insists they have to stop so she can pee, makes him get out too to buy her a soda, then grabs the keys from his hand and sprints to the driver’s side before he knows what’s going on, grinning at him through the window. He rolls his eyes as he drops in beside her. “I let you win.”

She laughs, incredulous. “You didn’t even race!”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, sure, you’re unbeatable in all athletic events. Where to, Captain?”

He rolls his eyes but can’t contain his smile. He rests a hand on her thigh as she drives, his thumb drawing little circles that feel warm through her jeans. She has some idea where they’re going as soon as he starts giving directions, but continues to needle him with questions anyway, which he gracefully fends off until they’re walking back into Central Park.

“So I changed our flight time,” he says, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Nathaniel…” She stops walking, and he turns to face her, his eyes scanning her face apprehensively. “This is really sweet,” she says, squeezing his hand. “Thank you.”

He smiles, relieved, and they carry on walking. The park is ten times as beautiful this time around – partly it’s the snow, but it’s her brain too. She feels lighter, safer, and it widens her field of vision so she can see more of the sparkle, the saturation turned way up. The sky is a bright, clear blue above them, Nathaniel’s cheeks are endearingly cold-flushed, and when they laugh they exhale frosty clouds, and all of it is stunning. She holds his hand in hers and hugs his arm as they walk.

“I called ahead, so we have a slot… I’m going to be bad at this,” he warns.

“Oh, me too,” she says. “So bad. I’m probably going to break my spine.” She hums happily, swinging their joined hands, kicking at slush with her boots. “This is a good surprise – thank you. I know how you like plans.”

“Well, it’s important to plan for spontaneity sometimes.”

Caught off guard, she laughs, and he grins at her, pleased with his lame joke.

They are pretty bad. But Nathaniel has good enough core strength and balance to stay on his feet, clumsy at first but steadily improving, and she is still surprisingly nimble, if a little haphazard. He only has to catch her at her elbows a few times – she picks up how to stay upright reasonably quickly. Her skill never really surpasses that, but it’s okay, because she’s here with Nathaniel and a perfect excuse to hold his hand and just go aimlessly around in circles with lots of other people doing the same, and it’s perfect. It feels like being part of something, their hands joined and the city stretching out and up around them. They talk about New York, about home, about Santa Monica pier at night time, and when he catches her grinning up at him he smiles, loose and happy.

Maybe she loves this place a little bit.

When her nose starts to freeze and her thighs start to ache, they switch their skates back for their regular shoes and set off walking. “Well?” Nathaniel says, a little nervously. “Did it live up to your expectations?”

She scrunches her nose, thinking about it. “I forgot I even had expectations.”

“That’s good, right?” They’re nearing the exit, and he stops, leads her off the path a little to get out of the crowd, holding both her hands. 

“That’s good,” she agrees. “It was perfect. Thank you.”

She stretches up on her toes to plant a soft kiss on his lips and he brings his gloved hands up to cup her cheeks as she drops back down. “Rebecca,” he says, his voice quiet and serious. “Me and you. Everything else is ours to decide, and we’ll figure it out together. No stories, no fate, no… Unhealthy amount of parental input. Okay?”

She drops her head to his chest, wrapping her arms tight around him. “That sounds _so_ great.”

* * *

They have time for some shopping. Mostly they wander aimlessly down streets that feel distantly familiar to her – she plans their route around the stores she remembers having the best holiday window displays, and he’s content to let her take the lead. Christmas songs drift out of doorways they pass, and she hums along, feeling light and happy. She stops at a display of stuffed animals gathered around a Christmas tree on a blanket of artificial snow and turns to him. “Does Hebby need this giant stuffed anteater that’s approximately the same size she is?” she asks, tapping the window.

“Need is a strong word,” he replies, but he takes her hand and leads her inside anyway.

She locates the anteater on a display of giant stuffed animals, picks it up and hugs it to her chest. “Just checking out the squishiness level,” she explains, in response to Nathaniel’s raised eyebrows. “It’s important. Ruth Gator Ginsburg is like, ideal squishiness.”

“Ah. And how does it measure up?”

“Perfect.”

She thrusts the anteater toward him and he takes it, checks the price tag and raises his eyes to the ceiling for a second but doesn’t comment. He takes it to the counter, and then they’re walking down the street with it under his arm. “You are the cutest,” she says, taking his free hand and swinging it.

“I think you’ll find I’m the worst person you’ve ever met,” he says, without looking at her.

“I may have been a little hasty in my initial assessment,” she begins, slipping her thumb under his sleeve to brush against his wrist. The anteater is the first joint gift they’ve actually chosen together, and she’s genuinely tempted to pirouette down the street with delight at how right it feels, how cute their reflections look together in store windows, how excited she is to be here with him, choosing Christmas gifts, having joint friends and joint holiday plans. “But I – oh.”

She stops, dropping his hand, and he whirls round to follow her gaze. The window display is all icicles and chandeliers, and it’s just a dress, a silky, off the shoulder red gown, knee length in the front and calf length in the back, with sparkling crystal details on the neckline. The Rebecca in her mind is gliding into the Disney on Ice version of a ballroom toward Nathaniel, spinning, effortlessly elegant, glowing under her imagination’s flattering light and nailing all kinds of big notes she’ll never hit in real life. “Pretty,” he agrees, calling her back to reality.

“Yeah,” she says. “It is.”

She turns back to him, smiling, the faraway notes of the song in her mind still fading as he gazes at her, smiling slightly, eyes bright and coat collar turned up and ridiculous anteater under one arm. He reaches for her with the other, his hand cupping the back of her neck as he leans in to kiss her, and this time when the music starts up she isn’t imagining the ballroom. Just this.


	15. Tuesday December 15th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca wins, & they get naked.

In therapy, she fills Doctor Akopian in on the trip to New York, and she bounces out, feeling light and optimistic. Nathaniel is waiting outside to pick her up, and she hops into the passenger seat and stretches over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “You seem happy,” he observes, starting the car. “Therapy go well?”

“Yeah,” she says, buckling her seatbelt and leaning back. “Yeah, it was good. The visit with my mom was less of a disaster than it seemed, on reflection. There were some positives.”

“That’s good,” he says, his voice neutral as he checks the mirrors and pulls out.

Smiling at his careful response, she turns a little in her seat to look at him. “We’re a positive,” she clarifies. “You and me, and us…”

Something like warm surprise flickers across his expression, and she settles sideways into her seat, watching his profile. She likes watching him drive when he’s relaxed like this – something about the magnetic pull of his intense focus – and it helps that he’s taken his suit jacket off and hung it on a hook in the back, his top button undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair a little messy. There’s something about seeing his half-deconstructed work persona that makes her want to tear the rest of his clothes off. He glances over to check the mirror on her side, and another quick flash of surprise crosses his face when he finds her staring at him, biting her lip. He turns back to the road. “I made dinner reservations,” he says lightly. “That Italian place in LA you loved last time.”

“Mmm,” she says, remembering. “I would marry those dough balls.”

He pulls a face. “Food shouldn’t be beige.”

“Okay, Mr I Only Consume Sludgy Green Swamp Water.”

“Mr I Only Consume Food That Contains Nutrients,” he corrects. “But you can call me Nathaniel.”

She rolls her eyes. “What time is dinner?”

“I’m sorry, did you have other plans?”

She shrugs, shifting in her seat, switching on the radio and flipping through channels, turning it up when she finds a Britney Spears song she can sing along with. She looks at him sideways. “I just kinda wanted to fuck you, but if we don’t have time…”

It has exactly the intended effect – his whole face goes comically slack with surprise, and she laughs as he tries and fails to pull himself together.

“We have some time,” he says eventually, shooting for casual, and she laughs harder.

She pays for catching him off guard when they get to the apartment – the second they’re in the door, he turns and hoists her into his arms, pressing her back against the door, and she squeals, dropping her purse at his feet and wrapping her legs around him. She winds her arms tight around his shoulders and his hips push forward as he drops his mouth to her neck and kisses hard under her jaw – goosebumps spread across her chest and down her arms, and a breathy _ah_ escapes her before she can stop it. His teeth sink into a spot below her pulse point, then he kisses there hard, nipping and sucking, and she grabs his face and brings his mouth to hers – he’s getting close to leaving a mark, and horny or not, she is an adult who sure as shit can’t pull off a turtleneck.

He pulls her thighs tighter around his waist, shifts his hips to press her harder against the door, then gets to work unbuttoning her blouse, his kisses all tongue and teeth and gentle moans. They perfected this dance a long time ago for regrettable reasons, but she has no regrets about the result – he is _so damn good_ at this. She squeezes his hips tight between her thighs as he opens her blouse and slips his hands underneath, groaning when his hands come in contact with bare skin. He pulls the cup of her bra roughly to the side, boosts her higher up on the door and kisses down her neck to her collarbone, lower, swirling his tongue around her nipple then sucking a mark into the side of her breast, where nobody will see it. Tingles fizz from the crown of her head and across her chest and down every limb at the feel of his mouth on her, the almost-painful bite, all his intensity concentrated on this one little circle of skin – her fingernails grip the back of his head and she breathes hard, shifting against him, searching for friction and whining when she can’t find it.

He presses a quick kiss to the mark he’s left then his mouth finds hers again, his hands coming back down to grip her thighs, lowering her back down, and an appreciative moan falls from his mouth into hers as their hips align and he’s pressed fully against her. He rocks into her and _yes, finally_ , he presses just right against her where she aches – she hooks her feet together to hold him there. “Don’t we have a dinner reservation?” she breathes, a hand in his hair and one holding tight around his shoulders.

He rests his forehead on hers, catching his breath. “We do,” he agrees. “So?”

“ _So_ ,” she says, rolling her hips and tightening her fingers in his hair for emphasis. “Less teasing, more fucking.”

“You really know what you want,” he says, eyebrows raised, clearly determined not to let her get the better of him this time.

She leans in to kiss him again, pulls his lip between her teeth before pulling back. “Don’t you?” she asks silkily.

His eyes fall shut and his fingertips dig hard into her thighs, and it’s clear in the strangled sound he makes that she’s won – she buries her smile, nosing the open collar of his shirt aside and kissing his shoulder, working on leaving a mark of her own as he carries her through the apartment. She falls backwards onto the bed with a bounce, and he’s pulling off her shoes and dragging her jeans down her thighs a second later. She sits up and manages to free herself from her shirt and half-undone bra and shove his shirt off him before he’s nudging her back down, dragging her to the edge of the bed. He settles down between her legs, and she reaches back to pass him a pillow to kneel on. “Holy shit, Nathaniel,” she mutters, as he takes it and hooks his arms around her thighs. “You really -”

The rest of the sentence gets lost in a moan as he draws a firm line with his tongue that ends at her clit, her hips pushing up into him involuntarily. He pulls her back down, holds her thighs firmly, and there’s no preamble, no teasing, just his mouth on her, hot and hard and focused. Her heels dig into his back, hands scrabbling for purchase in the sheets as one wave of sensation after another washes over her whole body, crashing over her until she’s gasping for air. She grabs a handful of his hair and he sucks hard on her clit as she comes apart with a moan, her thighs pulling tight around his head then collapsing against his arms.

He’s gentle as she floats down, kissing her thighs, her fingertips massaging his scalp for a languid, lazy moment. Then the rest of his clothes are on the floor and he has a condom on and he’s settling over her – she wraps her arms around his back and pulls him close, and he brushes her hair back from her face, presses an impossibly light kiss to her forehead as he slides inside. “You okay?” he whispers, pushing himself back up on his elbows and brushing his fingertips over her breast.

She looks down to see the mark he left there, standing out purple against her pale skin, and she shivers, goosebumps spreading across her chest. There’s a part of her that distantly thinks she shouldn’t find it such a turn on, the idea of possession, but whatever. It’s his mark on her, somewhere nobody else will see it, and if it’s wrong to think that’s hot then she doesn’t want to be right. “Less talking,” she replies, her voice a hoarse whisper. “More fucking.”

He laughs and obliges, winding a hand into her hair and holding it tight as he starts moving, making her scalp tingle. His breath lands quick and hot on her cheek, already pretty far gone, and it’s hot as hell and they have dinner reservations – she has no desire for patience right now. She shifts, tilts her hips to bring him in deeper and lets her fingernails dig into his back, and a low moan escapes him, his muscles jumping under her palms and his pace picking up. He slides a hand down between them, finding her clit with his thumb and pressing down hard, and she loses it – breathless, she climbs higher and higher, clinging to his back and pulling him as close as she can get him, needing to feel him everywhere, then he’s all electricity, his hips pushing her hard into the bed as he comes, her hair pulled tight in his hand and his teeth sinking hard into her shoulder, his thumb firm and rough on her clit until she follows a moment later, sparks flying behind her eyes and a string of curses falling from her lips.

He collapses against her, panting, and she holds him tight as the waves of her orgasm roll over her. She smooths a hand down his back, sighing at the ripple of his muscles, and he kisses her shoulder softly, soothing where his teeth had been a moment before. “We should get ready,” he murmurs, sounding half asleep.

“Mm, we should.” She kisses his temple, trails her fingertips up and down his back a couple of times. Still sensitive, he shivers at her touch, then, grinning, she does a couple of Kegels.

“Stop that,” he laughs, shoving himself off her and standing, finding his shirt on the floor and throwing it at her.

“Just keeping limber!” she insists, throwing it back as she bounces off the bed toward the bathroom. “The night is young.”


	16. Wednesday December 16th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca hangs out with the girls.

She leans over the pot on the stove, stirring it and sniffing the steam hopefully. She’s never done this before, but it definitely _smells_ like mulled wine – spicy and warm and fruity. She double checks the recipe on her laptop. Satisfied she hasn’t forgotten anything, she turns the heat down low, gets three glass mugs from the cabinet and lights a pine scented candle, looking around with satisfaction at how festive the apartment looks. The size of the tree is a little ridiculous, she thinks, but _good_ ridiculous. There’s a knock at the door, and she bounces over to let in Paula and Heather.

“Hey, girl!” Heather says, breezing past her into the apartment. “Ooh, something smells festive and alcoholic, I dig.”

Paula’s arms are full of bags – Rebecca closes the door behind them as Paula deposits her supplies on the counter, then turns to wrap her in a hug. “Okay, I know you wanted to bake cookies,” she says, stepping back and starting to unpack her bags onto the counter. “So I brought everything we need for those gingerbread ones you liked last year.” She starts tapping items to check them off. “We’ve got trays, bowls, cookie cutters, flour, ginger, cinnamon, syrup – you seriously haven’t ever baked gingerbread cookies before?”

“My mom is very anti… Literally everything they stand for,” Rebecca says, holding out her arm for Paula’s coat then hanging it behind the door. “Also I am not the best cook.”

“Oh, I totally noticed that,” Heather offers, kicking off her boots before stretching out on the sofa and raising a hand in the air. “It terrifies me every day that you run a food establishment, honestly.”

“My Yelp reviews are glowing,” Rebecca says, prodding Heather’s foot. “Do you want some of the wine I lovingly mulled for your enjoyment or not?” She wrinkles her nose thoughtfully. “Is that a verb? To mull?”

“Mmm, yes to wine,” Heather says, pushing herself upright. “It has been a _day_.” She looks around at the copious fairy lights with interest. “It’s looking, like, extremely festive in here.”

“ _Really_ sparkly,” Paula agrees.

“It’s actually kind of hilarious that Nathaniel lives in this room,” Heather continues, wandering over to the Christmas tree and eyeing a glittery silver ornament, touching it with her fingertips then holding them up to the light. “It’s so whimsical. Does he wear a plastic sheet to not get glitter on himself? Or is he just like, impervious to it somehow…?”

Rebecca snorts. “He actually hasn’t complained at all,” she says. “Which – yeah. Not gonna lie, I am still surprised.”

“’Cause he _liiiikes_ you,” Paula sings, clapping her hands together.

Grinning, Rebecca ladles some mulled wine into three mugs and takes a sip – it’s warm and spicy and sweet, and Heather makes an appreciative _mmmm_ sound as she slurps at hers, stirring it with a cinnamon stick. Rebecca keeps them topped up as they hang out in the kitchen, alternating between reading out cookie instructions and catching up. She fills them in on the visit to her mom as they take turns mixing the dough, trying at first to brush over the meltdown, but they catch her at it and they’re relentless. By the time their cookies are in the oven and they pile onto the sofa to accept Valencia’s Skype call, she’s halfway through the story and starts over for Valencia, leaving out only the dream ghost detail. As she speaks, Paula starts combing tangles out of Rebecca’s hair with her fingers – feeling cocooned, Rebecca leans against her.

“Your mother is a piece of work,” Valencia says, when she’s done. “Girl, you are crushing life right now. Your business, your music, everything. You’re doing great. She’s just jealous.”

“Aw, V, thank you.”

“How did Nathaniel handle your mom?” Valencia adds, an eyebrow raised. “I know when you visited with Josh…” She trails off, looking pointedly off to the side.

“Oh, better,” Rebecca says. “Thank god. I don’t know what I would’ve done if they were best friends. He was… Diplomatic?”

Heather snorts. “Politely rude. He’s great at that. I mean, also, you’re figuring out how to do the whole being in love thing, like, disaster free.” Valencia nods vigorously. “Which it seems like you’re also crushing, and that’s been a whole process, so. That’s not nothing.”

Paula wraps her in a hug, squeezing her tight around the shoulders. “We are so proud of you, honey,” she says. She pauses for a moment like she might manage to suppress the next part, then breaks. “Your mother,” she adds emphatically, “is _garbage_.”

Rebecca laughs, her cheeks warming, blinking away tears. “Okay,” she says decisively, grasping Heather and Paula’s knees and using them as leverage to push herself off the sofa. “Okay, thank you all for everything you just said, and I love you all so much, and I am going to go and refill our wine now – Valencia, you get wine too – and when I come back we’re not going to be talking about my drama anymore.”

They are not. They talk about a big party Valencia has coming up, then her plans for the New Year’s Eve party in West Covina. The conversation is just starting to turn silly and philosophical, and Rebecca is pleasantly buzzed, the world a little shinier around the edges, when there’s a knock at the door. “Huh,” she says, untangling her legs from Heather’s on the sofa and pushing herself heavily to her feet. She opens the door to a delivery guy holding a large, flat box. “Rebecca Bunch?” he says, checking the delivery note.

“I – yeah – that’s…” It takes her brain a few seconds to catch up – she shakes off the wine-tinted haze of confusion. “Sorry, yes, that’s me. Thank you.” She takes the box, signs for it and brings it inside. “Weird,” she says, looking it over. “I don’t think I ordered anything…”

“Ooooh, intriguing,” Heather says, with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle.

“Open it open it open it,” Valencia chants from the laptop on the coffee table.

She opens it and unfolds the note on top of the tissue paper: _How was I supposed to resist? You’re on your own with the lingerie this time – N_

Heart thudding, she unfolds the tissue paper and her mouth drops open as she lifts out the dress from the window in New York, the silky crimson fabric unfurling itself and tumbling over her arm. 

“ _Hooooly_ shit,” Heather says.

“Oh, honey,” Paula breathes. “That is _beautiful_.”

“Somebody show me!” Valencia demands, leaning in close to the camera and squinting at the screen. “All I see is red! Is it a dress? If it’s a dress, go put it on right this minute.”

She does, in the bathroom, with some help from Paula. When she looks at herself in the mirror, Paula’s hands on her shoulders, her eyes go wide. Partly it’s the buzz of the alcohol, she thinks, and partly the way the aggressively supportive environment of the gurl group is like candlelight – she always looks better in their glow. But she doesn’t look _that_ far off the way she did in her imagination. “Wow,” she breathes, staring at her reflection, the way the neckline mirrors her collarbone, the way the red stands out against her pale skin…

“Sweetie, you look _stunning_ ,” Paula says.

They go back out into the living room hand in hand – she twirls, a little off-balance, and Heather’s eyebrows climb high on her forehead. “Daaamn,” she says, looking her up and down, eyes wide, shifting the laptop to give Valencia a better view.

“You are _smoking hot_ in that,” Valencia agrees. “Damn, girl. Nathaniel did good.”

* * *

Heather and Paula are on their way out when he gets home from the gym. Heather pats his arm affectionately, and Paula squeezes his hand in both of hers, then they’re gone, and he finds Rebecca sitting up against the headboard in her sushi PJs, looking at him with her head tilted to one side, her mascara smudged. “Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi,” he replies, and a sleepy smile spreads on her face. “How was your night?”

“It was so gooood,” she says, a little slurred. “Like, so nice. Warm and fuzzy. So much wine. There are cookies on the counter. I know you don’t eat cookies, but – you can. If you w…” The last word gets lost in a yawn.

He laughs, tugging at the blanket under her legs, and she takes the hint, climbing under it, settling her head on the pillow. He pulls the blanket up to her chin, her eyes already fluttering shut. “I’m going to shower,” he says. “Sleep – I’ll be right back.”

“Hey.” Her arm snakes out from under the cover to grab his wrist and she drags her eyes open. He sits on the edge of the bed, and she scoots over to make room for him. “Nathaniel, that dress,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice dropping low. “I look forward to dancing with you.” Her eyes close and she hums, smiling. He kisses her forehead, tucks the blanket back over her arm and doesn’t move again until he’s sure she’s asleep. He checks his phone on the way to the bathroom, finding two texts from Heather: _Dude that dress is spectacular, 10/10_. Then: _Also kudos on buying the right size u r a credit to men_.


	17. Thursday December 17th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel has a bad day, & Rebecca has a plan.

It’s a frustrating day. An everything going wrong day. Some paperwork has vanished for one of Darryl’s cases, and Nathaniel is determined not to call him while he’s on paternity leave, so he redoes it. A county jail case that should’ve been cut and dry suddenly isn’t because of a pointless bit of bureaucracy – he’s positive he can fix it, but it’s going to take extra time, and he’s not looking forward to breaking the news. Traffic is terrible for no obvious reason so he’s late to a meeting, then goes straight from that to a phone call with his father about the firm’s charity ball, which goes fine on the surface but something about the tone of his father’s voice sends his heart rate inexplicably through the roof. When he gets back to the office, the photocopier is broken. George’s cat has a new sweater, and every time Nathaniel overhears him telling somebody about it, his blood pressure ratchets up another notch.

It’s the kind of day that pushes his commitment to not yell at people to its limit, so he spends most of it avoiding people completely as much as possible. He stays late, exchanging the car keys for a coffee at Rebetzel’s, and by the time he texts Rebecca from the Uber to let her know he’s coming home, he feels like his skeleton is trying to jump out of his skin.

She replies almost instantly: _Preparing fort_.

He frowns down at his phone for a moment, trying to make sense of her message. Eventually, he assumes it’s a typo (although he can’t imagine what for) and goes back to staring out of the window with his jaw clenched tight, ignoring his driver’s attempts at making conversation. His rating has recovered somewhat in the past couple of years, but sometimes silence is the best he can do.

When he walks through the apartment door, Rebecca squeals, “Don’t look yet!”

Wincing, he covers his eyes automatically with his hand. “I’m uh – I’m just going to shower?” he says tentatively.

“Yes!” she says, much closer this time. She steps into him, eases his briefcase out of his hand and his messenger bag from his shoulder and puts them down by the door. “Good good good. Good idea. Shower. In the bathroom.” She takes his free hand and starts guiding him through the apartment, and the total lack of control makes something flare in his chest that he would’ve once interpreted as annoyance. Instead, he smiles a little and brushes his thumb over the back of her hand. She deposits him at the bathroom doorway, pulls him down to kiss his cheek, the light brush of her lips leaving him tingling. “Enjoy. And knock before you come out.”

Part of him – the part that really does not like surprises – wants to ask her to please just tell him what she’s up to. But there are other parts – the part that just wants to be alone in the shower with the door locked behind him, washing off the day; the part that can hear the happiness in her voice and doesn’t want to ruin it for her – and he lets them win. He locks the bathroom door behind him, avoids looking at his tense, worn out face in the mirror as he undresses, and steps into the shower.

The water is searing hot. It’s Rebecca’s preference, and normally he’d adjust it, but as he stands under the spray, wondering idly how she has any skin left, he finds some masochistic enjoyment in it. It’s just the right side of pain, just distracting enough that the details of his day start to dissolve into the sting of the water on his skin. He gets out, dries his hair off roughly then wraps the towel around his waist. He reaches for the door handle then stops, drops his head forward and knocks the door.

He hears her footsteps approaching. “Are you dressed?” she asks through the door.

“Uh, no?” he replies, resisting the urge to ask who else is out there.

The door opens a crack and her hand appears in the gap, holding boxer briefs, pyjama pants and his Stanford t-shirt.

“Wow,” he says, taking them.

The rest of her comes through the door then, wearing silky pyjamas, her eyes sliding gracefully up the length of his body before settling, concerned, on his face. “Wow?”

“Wow, you don’t usually encourage me to get dressed,” he replies, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m not sure how to feel about this development. Did we just get old?”

She grins, eyes sparkling. “We’ll get to this,” she says, gesturing at his bare torso. “But I have a whole thing planned.”

Apprehensively, he says, “I’m not sure I’m in the headspace for a whole thing.”

“No, no, not that kind of thing. Emphatically _not_ that kind of thing.” She places a reassuring hand on his chest, and her eyes drift back down. “Just – put on some clothes, you’re distracting me.”

In one motion, he unravels the towel and lets it drop to the floor, and she laughs, backing out of the bathroom with her hands raised in surrender. “Get dressed and get in here!” she calls.

So he gets dressed and gets in there, and his heart jumps into his throat and lodges there when he sees what she’s been hiding. She has all the overhead lights off and the Christmas tree and a couple of lamps on, some of the fairy lights strung around a – “A blanket fort,” she explains, chewing her lip nervously. “I um – I ordered those chicken things you like from the Thai place. So they’ll be here soon. And – look.”

She takes his hand and leads him around to the front of the sofa. She’s stretched blankets between the back of all the seats, shifted the coffee table out of the way, turning the middle of the room into a low tent. She drops to the floor and looks up at him, eyebrows raised in anxious expectation, and he follows, crawling in behind her. It’s cosy inside, just enough room for the two of them to comfortably sit upright on the floor, the blanket an inch or so clear of his hair, the space softly lit with fairy lights. She’s filled it with cushions, a comforter he recognises from her old apartment, patchwork and colourful, and Ruth Gator Ginsburg. In the middle of the floor, there’s a plate of carrot and celery sticks and a jar of peanut butter. She glances at his face, her eyebrows pulled together, clearly trying to gauge his reaction. Switching her attention to her phone, she fiddles with it for a second, and then it’s playing music – Frank Sinatra singing _Silent Night_.

“Rebecca,” he says, and he’s surprised at how wrecked his voice sounds, how tight his throat feels. “This is -” He clears his throat, tries again. “I love you.”

Relief floods her expression, her features rearranging immediately to something soft and fond. “It’s a whole Sinatra Christmas playlist,” she says quietly. “Seemed like you, but you can change it if you want. I was a little worried you’d be mad about the rearranged furniture.”

 _Huh_. There’s a version of him somewhere in the back of his mind that might be unsettled by it on a bad day, but this is too sweet, too thoughtful, too entirely Rebecca. “Come here,” he whispers, and she crawls toward him, kneeling at his side with her hands cupping his jaw as his slide up her back. Her lips meet his softly, her breath joining his with an undercurrent of heat he knows he could guide them into if he wanted, but right now his lungs feel normal for the first time all day and he just wants this – he slides his palm slowly up the length of her back as they kiss, tracing her spine, dizzyingly in love with every inch of her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders when they break apart, resting her forehead against his and swaying a little to the music. He drops his hands to her waist in kind of a seated slow dance, closing his eyes.

“Did you do this as a kid?” she asks quietly. “Blanket forts? Hiding from the world?”

“The hiding, yes,” he says. “Mostly just under the covers. I hid in my closet a few times, but it wasn’t really worth the lecture if I got caught. Men don’t hide, et cetera. I’m sure you can imagine.”

As always, it costs him some effort to get the words out, and there’s a twist of shame somewhere low in his chest, but she just hums sympathetically and brushes her fingers through the back of his hair, and the tight feeling loosens and warms. “I used to hide under _everything_ ,” she says. “End tables, dining tables, my bed… I scratched little holes on the underside of _so_ many pieces of furniture.”

He starts to draw her closer, then there’s a knock at the door and she wriggles out of his arms and crawls out from under the blanket roof. She comes back a moment later with a few takeout containers, an unusually reserved selection, and arranges them around the plate of carrots and celery. “A feast,” she says. “Tailored to your particular sensibilities, because your day sucked. Tomorrow we’re having carbs.”

“Deal.” She hums, picking up a carrot stick, wrinkling her nose then taking a bite. “Hey,” he adds, and she looks at him, smiling as she crunches her carrot. “Thank you.”

They eat dinner mostly in silence, and it’s everything he needed. Rebecca closes her eyes and sways to the music, tangles her legs together with his, clears away their containers when they’re done then crawls back in, finding him on the comforter on the floor waiting for her. He holds his arms out, but she passes him Ruth Gator Ginsburg and crawls in behind him instead, smoothing her hand up and down his back, easing knots out of the tense spots. “Hard day,” she observes, wrapping her arm around his waist. There’s something comforting about the way she says it, like it isn’t a question, like he has nothing to justify.

He rolls onto his back and pulls her into him, her head on his chest, her leg thrown over both of his, her body fitting perfectly against him. He opens his eyes to the softly illuminated blanket ceiling, tracing patterns on her arm with his fingertips, breathing slow and deep and finding it comes easily. “Yeah,” he says. “Easier now.”


	18. Friday December 18th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's National Christmas Sweater Day, & Rebecca drives a hard bargain (they get naked).

“Absolutely not,” Nathaniel says flatly, finishing tying his shoelace and standing up.

“It’s National Christmas Sweater Day! And Darryl’s coming in _just_ for this. Are you telling me you don’t want to make Darryl happy?”

“That’s not what I said,” he insists. “What I said was, I am not putting that monstrosity on my body.”

“This is not a monstrosity!” Rebecca says, waving the sweater at him. “This is a cultural icon. Come on, you can take it off once he’s seen it! _Imagine_ how happy you’ll make him!”

He drags a hand over his face. “Rebecca,” he says, pained.

“Nathaniel,” she replies, undeterred. She throws the sweater at him and he catches it to avoid ending up with it draped over his head. He watches as she pulls on her own matching one. It has a reindeer on the front with multicoloured Christmas lights in its antlers and a pompom red nose. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, and she rolls her eyes. “Come on, this isn’t even that bad a Christmas sweater! It doesn’t light up or play music or _anything_. And,” she adds happily, “you can’t keep insulting it because it’s also _my_ sweater!” She gives him a twirl, ending with her arms raised dramatically over her head.

“Excuse me, since when do I not insult your clothes?”

She folds her arms across her chest and stares at him, eyebrows raised.

“Why are you so invested in this?” he asks, some of the stubbornness melting out of his voice in his curiosity.

She shrugs. “Because Darryl really cares about this stupid day, and I know you really care about him,” she says. “And because you’re going to look cute as all hell in this sweater. And we’ll _match_.”

“Is there even an outside possibility you’re going to let this go?”

“No there is not.”

He sighs, folds it and puts it in his bag. He grabs the chocolate marked ‘18’ from her advent calendar and hands it to her. “Well, let’s go,” he says, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile at the sight of her adjusting her own sweater, freeing the reindeer’s pompom nose from the cross-body strap of her purse.

“Hey,” she says, planting a hand on his chest. She drops her voice low, looks up at him through her eyelashes, and it’s ridiculous really, how quickly he’s putty in her hands. “I promise you can rip this off me later. You can repay me for this indignity any way you like. My punishment is in your hands.” He opens his mouth to reply, and she takes another step closer, so he can feel the heat of her body on his, her hands wandering over his chest. “Whatever just crossed your mind,” she says, raising an eyebrow in a way that says _remember?_ He swallows, and she curls her hands and drags her fingers down from his chest to rest on his belt. He looks up at the ceiling, puffs out a breath, tries to redirect some blood to his brain. Pleased with herself, she taps him on the cheek, and he drags his eyes back to hers. “Yes, that,” she concludes, grinning.

He holds her gaze for a few seconds, a thrill running up his spine at the challenge sparkling in her eyes, then nods once. “Deal.”

* * *

AJ affects a look of abject horror when he sees her walk in, and continues to snark all morning, but she’s gleefully unperturbed, her mood buoyant to a degree he seems to find unsettling. Darryl bounces into the lobby around lunch time in a sweater with red and white diagonal stripes all over, and an actual tinsel wreath on the front, complete with real lights and ornaments and a huge red silk bow. “Oh good lord,” AJ mutters, before holding up a hand to answer Darryl’s enthusiastic wave. Giggling, Rebecca texts Nathaniel as Darryl gets into the elevator: _Darryl incoming – sweater on or else_.

He replies a second later with a picture of himself at his desk, in his sweater, looking extremely unimpressed. She grins, and a text comes in a second later: _Are you sure you’re ready for this payback?_

She bites her lip. _What did you have in mind?_

Nathaniel: _Patience, Rebecca._

Rebecca: _Not my strong point._

Nathaniel: _You’ll learn. Gotta go, Darryl’s here._

She scrolls back up to the picture, grinning. The buttoned up collar and tie peeking out from the neckline of the sweater only heighten the adorableness. Her cheeks hurt from grinning and her neck prickles with anticipation, and it’s a confusing combination but she does not hate it.

“Hey, put that away,” AJ says, exasperated.

“Excuse me, employee of the month,” Rebecca says, jabbing her finger at the photo of AJ she’s had pinned to the wall for the past several months, “but who is the boss of whom around here? I can use my phone if I -”

“Not your _phone_ ,” AJ replies. “Your ‘I’m getting some’ face. It’s scaring away the customers.”

“It is not.”

“Fine, it’s scaring away your employee of the month.”

She pulls a face at him and stuffs her phone into the pocket of her apron.

* * *

Darryl _is_ delighted by the sweater. And okay, Darryl’s happy face _does_ make him feel good, in a confusing, unsettling way. The man throws his approval around like confetti at a wedding, so Nathaniel is not entirely sure why it means so much to him to get it, but maybe that’s part of it – it turns out that when it comes to affection, there’s a wide chasm between scarcity and value.

He’s been teasing her by text all day, innuendos and suggestions of escalating intensity. She aims for innocent for a while, playing the part, but eventually she’s so worked up she’s practically begging him to leave work early to fuck her, and by the time he’s shoving the sweater back in his bag and packing his things away at home time, he’s all but forgotten the punishment angle – it’s much more her fantasy than his anyway, although that has its own appeal. Then she appears in the office, still in her ridiculous sweater, knocking lightly on the door then slinking around it, visibly taut with anticipation. He suppresses a laugh. “Couldn’t wait?” he says lightly.

She pouts. “It’s been a _long_ day.”

“What did I say about patience?” he says, throwing a glance out at the bullpen as he steps into her space, fingertips feather light on her waist. She shivers. Maya’s still at her desk. 

“What did _I_ say?” she counters, her hand landing on his hip, sliding under his jacket. “I suck at it.”

He raises his eyebrows a little at her word choice, and her cheeks flush. She throws a glance in the direction of the supply closet. “Absolutely not,” he says firmly before she can say a word.

She sighs. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right.” He drops his hand from her waist and reaches around her to open the office door and hold it open for her. “Come on, home time.”

* * *

The entire drive home, she shifts around in her seat, already ridiculously turned on. Clearly prepared for her, the only word he says the whole way in response to her goading is _patience_. She rereads his texts from the day instead, biting her lip and crossing and uncrossing her legs, and as they walk through the apartment door, he turns immediately, takes her phone and her purse from her hands and puts them down. He takes her wrists and presses them against the door, stepping close to pin her there. Her body responds immediately, heat flooding between her legs, and a whimper escapes her. “I know what you were doing,” he says, his voice low, his eyes boring into hers. “Not very patient of you.”

Her chest flushes and her eyes drop shut, her whole body vibrating with anticipation. “Nathaniel,” she breathes. “I want -”

He releases one of her wrists and her hand automatically reaches for him, landing on his hip as he pulls off his tie. He glances down but obviously decides to allow it. He hooks a finger under her chin and she looks up at him, pulling her lip between her teeth. Head tilted, expression soft, he holds the tie up, squeezes her wrist and says, “You want this?”

“God, yes.”

He nods once, businesslike, pulling off his suit jacket and undoing his top button and cuffs, and the pulse between her legs gets ridiculous, arousal flooding every cell of her body so she can think of nothing but him. He reaches for the hem of her sweater and pulls it over her head with no ceremony, abandoning it on the floor at their feet. “Clothes off,” he says, a clear demand. _Fuck_. She bites down on her lip to keep herself from moaning out loud. He turns and walks toward the bed and she follows eagerly, kicking off her boots and fumbling with the button of her jeans, so by the time he gets to the edge of the bed and turns, she’s just in her underwear, reaching around for the clasp of her bra. He catches her arms and brings them down to her sides, looks her over with an intense, searching gaze that’s all possession. He wraps a hand around the back of her neck, tilts her face up to him and kisses her hard, then before she can catch up he reaches around and unclips her bra himself, guiding the straps down her arms.

He makes a ‘turn’ motion with his finger, and she does, her heart skipping as she turns her back to him and feels his gaze all over her. He sits down on the bed, takes her wrists and guides her a couple of steps backwards. She feels the silky fabric of the tie wind around her wrists, securing them together at her back. After tying the knot, he drops a quick kiss above the fabric. “That feel okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “It feels good.”

“Good. Turn around.”

She does, her eyes finding his immediately – his expression is all focused determination as he reaches for her, holding her waist with one hand and slipping the other between her legs, palming her through the drenched fabric of her underwear. She can’t suppress her moan this time – her legs feel like they’re turning to jelly as he works her with his fingers, and she struggles automatically against the fabric of the tie to reach out to steady herself. He holds her firm at her waist with both hands and smirks at her, and she breathes, “Asshole.”

“You think so?” he says lightly, removing his hands from her body completely and starting to unbutton his shirt. She whines, sinks her teeth into her lip and presses her thighs tight together, needing sensation, anything at all to relieve the pulsing heat building between her legs. He tosses his shirt aside and stands to unbuckle his belt, skirting around her to drop it on the floor by his dresser. She can’t take her eyes off the plane of his back as he unbuttons his pants and steps out of them, pulls off his underwear, then he turns and stands naked in front of her, and their eyes meet and she thinks she might actually be catching fire.

For a moment he just stares back at her, looking exactly as wrecked as she feels, then he guides her to the bed and she sits where he was before, letting her eyes wander as he takes a step toward her, slides his hand into her hair and tilts his head in a silent question. She dips her head in response, locks her lips around the tip of him and kisses gently: _yes_. Then she sits back up straight, relaxes her jaw, because he’s supposed to be in control, and she knows he won’t take it back with her in this position unless she gives it to him. “Look at me,” he whispers. She does, her eyes locked with his, curling her hands into fists at her back to fight the urge to try and reach for him. She wants to grab his hips and pull him forward, wants to kiss and lick and suck until he forgets he ever knew the word _patience_. She knows the desire is all over her face, and she doesn’t much care. She licks her lips, and he makes an odd little involuntary sound, takes another step forward and guides her mouth onto him.

She’s sloppier than she would be if she had control of her hands, but he doesn’t seem to mind – the sounds he makes smoulder between her legs and she shifts on the bed, looking for friction and finding none, pressing her tongue flat against him. His fingertips tighten in her hair, and he pulls back – she looks up, questioning. “On your back,” he says, his voice low and thick, and she shivers, shuffles awkwardly up the bed and lowers herself down, head and shoulders on a couple of pillows. He waits, watching her carefully while she wriggles around to find a comfortable position with her hands behind her back, feet planted on the mattress.

“I’m good,” she says, before he can ask.

He quirks an eyebrow at her continued shameless impatience, nudging her knees apart with his hands. She lets them drop open, watches him drop down between her legs and feels the air leave her lungs all at once as he presses his lips to her knee and kisses up the inside of her right thigh. His kisses alternate between feather-light and downright filthy, and she squirms under him, hot desperation following in the wake of his touch. As he reaches the edge of her underwear, he glances up at her with another smirk, presses an open mouthed kiss against her clit through the fabric. Her breath catches in her throat. “ _Yes_ ,” she breathes. “Oh my god, don’t stop -” But he does, kissing back down her other thigh, the aching pressure building until it’s practically unbearable. “Nathaniel,” she whines, delirious. “Nathaniel, please.”

He scrapes his teeth along the inside of her knee, his hands curling around her hips, holding her down. “It’s a virtue, you know,” he says, kissing back up her thigh.

“I never said I was virtuous,” she replies.

He laughs, his breath light and hot and unexpected, then without warning he pushes the fabric of her underwear aside and slides two fingers inside her, curls them, circles her clit with his thumb, and she twists up against his hand with a cry. Without removing his hand, he moves up the bed, winds his other hand into her hair and kisses her hard and insistent, taking complete control, and as she digs her heels into the bed and pushes up into his hand, he breaks away from her mouth and drags his teeth down her neck and she’s finally, _finally_ crashing over the edge, a guttural sound of pure relief breaking free from her chest.

He works her through it with his fingers and holds her against his chest as she comes down, reaching around with one hand to loosen the knot of the tie. She slips free and wraps her arms tight around him, breathing hard, her ear pressed to his chest to listen to the quick but steady beat of his heart as the waves wash over her. “You okay?” he asks softly, nosing at her hair.

“So good,” she breathes. “Oh my god.”

Something like a whimper escapes him, and she wriggles out of her underwear, throws her leg over his hip and rolls him onto his back, straddling his thighs. She takes him in her hand and he digs his fingertips into her hips, his eyes slamming shut as she strokes him slowly, methodically. She watches his brow furrow in concentration. “Rebecca,” he says, his voice rough. “This was not the deal.”

“Mmm, I guess you’re right.” She doesn’t stop, but reaches over to grab a condom and opens the package with her teeth – he breathes a surprised _ah_ as she rolls it onto him, then she shifts, lines him up, braces herself on his shoulders and holds still. His eyes open and find hers, searching. “Take it,” she whispers. His hands curl around her hips, and because she knows how exquisite his reaction will be, she adds, “I’m yours.”

The sound he makes comes from low in his throat as he pulls her hips down hard onto him, slamming into her all at once, and she drops forward with a long, broken moan, shifting the angle but letting him keep control of the pace. He goes slowly at first, pushing his hips up as he pulls hers down, and she’s so lost in the moment, in the rolling motion and letting him have total control of her, she’s barely aware of how close she is to the edge again until she’s tumbling over it, letting it pull her under, stuttering his name in surprise as she trembles on top of him. He’s a goner after that – he exhales a _fuck Rebecca_ , and nothing is slow anymore. He holds her hips in a bruising grip, and she sits up, spreads her hands on his chest and leans her weight on them, pinning him under her, knowing it’ll wreck him, and she’s right – the rhythm he sets is punishing then erratic, then he pulls her down hard on top of him as his eyes slam shut, hips stuttering into her as he falls apart with a broken whine.

She rolls her hips a couple more times, smoothing her thumb over his cheekbone, until his eyes flutter open and he reaches up for her. “Come here,” he whispers, and she drops down onto his chest and curls against him. He plants a kiss on the top of her head, spreading his palms wide on her back. “You’re incredible.”

“Mmm, solid punishment,” she murmurs, tracing infinity signs on his chest with her fingertips. “Ten out of ten, would coerce into wearing an adorable sweater again.”


	19. Saturday December 19th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's fancy Plimpton event time.

He’s adjusting his bowtie in the full length mirror when she steps out of the bathroom, the uneven click of her heels on the floor drawing his attention – she’s walking backwards, her dress open at the back with a terrifying looking combination of strapless bra and Spanx underneath. “I didn’t want to ruin the illusion of flawless sexiness,” she says, dipping her head forward. “But I need you to zip me up. I think I might’ve dislocated something trying to reach.”

Smiling, he steps up behind her, fastens the hook at the top of the zipper then pulls it up the length of her back. Then, because the heels bring her a few inches closer than he’s used to and her shoulders are bare and tempting, he rests his hands on her waist and trails kisses from behind her ear down her neck to her shoulder. She shivers. “Wait,” she says. “I want you to see.”

He takes an obedient step back, and she turns, and _god_. She’s breathtaking. His lips part as he takes her in – his eyes don’t know where to settle. Her eyes are bright and sparkling, rimmed with smoky black, her cheekbones pale pink and shimmery, her lips a tempting cherry red that matches her dress. She had her hair done hours ago in a salon, so he’s already seen the fancy updo, the crystal comb from her mom gracefully incorporated, but something about the combination of the few loose curls falling around her face and the sparkling, off-the-shoulder neckline of the dress makes him want to grab her hair and tangle his hands in it. He doesn’t, because he values his life. Settling his hands back on her waist instead, where the silk of the dress elegantly skims her curves, he holds her at arm’s length. “You look gorgeous,” he says, low and soft, and she tilts her chin up to meet his eyes, her hands coming to rest on his chest over his tuxedo jacket, her smile all excited anticipation.

“I know this is a law firm charity ball that has your dad at it,” she says. “But I am _so_ ready to dance with you.”

His smile stretches wide and he leans down to kiss her, stopping right before their lips touch. “Am I going to ruin your makeup?”

“Oh, no, this stuff is bulletproof,” she assures him. “I don’t buy anything I can’t kiss you in.”

“What a great policy.”

She’s practically humming with eagerness when their lips meet, her hands curling round the lapels of his jacket, and he lets some of her energy transfer to him as they kiss, slow and deliberate, and for a couple of blissful minutes he doesn’t spare a single thought for his father.

* * *

The effect doesn’t last the length of the Uber ride – even with her hand in his, her thumb gliding over and over the back of his hand, his stomach starts to churn with familiar anxiety the closer they get to the hotel. He used to interpret this feeling as motivation, a drive to always be improving, but he thinks it was probably always panic. He’s getting better at dealing with it, at not making it a driving force in his decision making, but so far the feeling itself is going nowhere.

He can handle it. But it’s not pleasant.

They step out of the car outside the hotel. Rebecca looks down at the red carpet then up at the door, flanked by people dressed like they could be Secret Service, and an amused smile flits across her face. Then she looks back at him, her smile softening, and rubs his arm lightly. “Hey,” she says, her voice gentle and soothing in a way that suggests he needs to cover his nerves better before they go inside. “We are just two people going to a fancy party orchestrated because obscenely wealthy people need tax breaks. You’re not here to impress him, and neither am I. You’ll have a nice time, make me the luckiest girl on the dancefloor – it’ll be fun.”

Letting himself mirror her smile, he takes a breath. “You really do look beautiful,” he says.

“You’re looking unreasonably handsome yourself,” she replies, letting her voice drop low. Another car starts pulling up beside them, and they step out of the way as an older couple climbs out. “Shall we?” she asks with a glance at the door, eyebrows raised.

“I suppose we shall,” he says, offering her his arm. She hooks her hand into his elbow and squeezes.

They start up the steps together. She starts to slow as they approach the security people, but some of the names on the list have pictures beside them, and he lays his hand over hers on his arm and they walk straight by. The lobby is all red and white and crystal, a string quartet off to the side playing _The First Noël_. Rebecca sighs audibly by his side as she looks around, and he smiles down at her, wishing for a moment he could be as taken by the whole thing as she is. But he’s taken enough by her, by having her there with him, that it doesn’t matter much.

She actually gasps when they walk into the ballroom, turning to look up at him with wide eyes, and he spreads his palm wide on her back, wanting to hold all of her at once. It _is_ beautiful in its way – polished and softly lit, all dark wood, white tablecloths and red curtains, warm white lights and sparkling chandeliers. The people are polished too, well dressed and waltzing or sipping drinks in little clusters – he can see his parents on the opposite side of the room, near the bar with martinis in hand, facing the other way.

A waiter approaches with a tray of champagne. Nathaniel takes two, and hands one to Rebecca.

“Thanks,” she says, taking it with a smile and tapping it against his. She looks around with interest. “Any of your targets here yet?”

“Don’t call them targets.”

She laughs. “What happened to loving the pursuit?”

He still does, kind of. Or he’s good at it, anyway – he’s still working on separating those two feelings. Instead of getting into that, he says, “It sounds weird when you say it.” He glances around, scanning the crowd. “No, I don’t think they’re here yet.”

They start weaving their way toward his parents. A lot of people recognise him, people from the LA firm and old clients, mostly, and he does a lot of smiling and nodding, Rebecca’s hand tucked securely in his elbow. She gives his arm a quick squeeze then lets go as they approach his parents. “Nathaniel!” his mom says, a genuine smile in her eyes. “Rebecca! It’s so lovely to see you.” 

“Yes, welcome,” his father says, stiff and formal, offering his hand.

Nathaniel shakes it, then Rebecca steps forward and grabs it before it can fully drop, gracefully not allowing him to leave her hanging a beat too long as Nathaniel suspects he would’ve chosen. “Dad, this is Rebecca,” he says, the amusement he feels finding its way into his voice as warm confidence. “My -”

“Good evening, Rebecca. I’ve heard about you, of course. From – various sources.” The tone of his voice clearly communicates _The Daily Covina_ , and a prickle of discomfort crawls up the back of Nathaniel’s neck.

If Rebecca is at all uncomfortable, she doesn’t show it – she laughs, quiet and bright. “It’s lovely to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

She takes a sip of her champagne, holds his gaze, and doesn’t elaborate. The word _bold_ pushes its way so clearly into Nathaniel’s mind he very nearly says it out loud.

“How is the pretzel business?” his father asks, somehow making the word _pretzel_ sound like _heroin_.

“It’s _so_ great,” Rebecca says. “I always wanted to do something that just makes people happy, you know? What could be happier than pretzels?”

It’s a much sunnier spin than she puts on it in private, and his father shows every sign he’s going to say something scathing, but his mom speaks before he gets the chance. “Isn’t that a lovely outlook?” she observes, her tone entirely neutral. Then, leaning in and lightly touching Rebecca’s arm, she adds, “You look beautiful, dear. Red really is your colour.”

She takes Rebecca by the elbow and the two of them break away, leaving Nathaniel with his father. He starts immediately. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says. “I’ve hardly seen you since you disappeared for your little – breakdown.”

“It was not a breakdown,” Nathaniel says evenly, resisting a strong urge to roll his eyes. “It was a sabbatical. Which I arranged with you and my partners in the West Covina branch before leaving.”

“Well if you ask me, these formative years of your career are some of the most important times in your life. It’s vital you’re not -” he looks over at Rebecca, pointedly looking her up and down “- _distracted_.”

Nathaniel grits his teeth but doesn’t reply, and does his best to tune out most of the lecture that follows, maintaining an expression of polite disinterest for as long as he can, before spotting an imaginary client across the room and leading Rebecca away.

* * *

It is actually kind of fun after that. He introduces Rebecca to some of the lawyers from the LA office, some of his old clients, some of the people he’s hoping might become new clients. She’s delightful in that disarming, confusing way of hers, barrelling straight through forced formality without ever appearing to make anyone uncomfortable. With the unfortunate but inevitable exception of his father, everyone she speaks to seems charmed by her, and her presence makes every conversation more bearable. They break away from a catch up with a Stanford friend who now owns a golf course, and find their way onto the dancefloor – one hand on his bicep and the other clasped tight in his own as they carve out a space and start to dance, she looks up at him curiously. “You guys were friends in college?”

“We were,” he says, looking over her head at the conversation they’ve just left then back at her. “Why?”

“That was just…” She lowers her voice dramatically. “A _really boring_ conversation.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, mildly offended. “You try making networking about golf course real estate interesting.”

“Well, that’s what I mean,” she says, grinning, a sparkle of challenge in her eyes. “It can’t be done. What did you talk about in college? Sports? Philosophy?” She waggles her eyebrows. “Sex?”

With a wry smile, he replies, “The college equivalent of golf course real estate.”

She laughs, and her hand slides up to the back of his head, her fingertips brushing his scalp. She tilts her head a little to the side, a furrow forming between her eyebrows as she looks at him. “I love you,” she says thoughtfully, like she’s just realising it. His heart squeezes, his hand tightening on her waist, and she adds, “And you are a surprisingly good dancer.”

He grins, and spins her under his arm. “Still surprising?” he asks lightly. “I thought you’d have me all figured out by now.”

She’s laughing when he pulls her back in, falling back into step like they’re magnetically drawn together. She’s a good dancer too, confident and loose and always coordinated, like the music lives inside her. “We haven’t really danced much,” she says. “It’s still a surprise every time. It’s like…” She shakes her head, looking down, and when her eyes meet his again her cheeks are pink, her lip pulled between her teeth. She’s getting tipsy, he realises – they’re matched drink for drink, and he has the advantage both in body mass and in general constitution. “In my head,” she says, “everyone can dance. It’s like a full on musical in there. It makes me forget you’re actually good in real life.”

He doesn’t know where to begin responding to that, but then the music shifts, slower and softer, and he pulls her in closer. His hand slides to the centre of her back, and her fingers make gentle circles on the back of his neck, right above his collar, sending pleasant tingles rolling down his spine. “I’m really happy to be here with you,” she says softly.

“I’m happy you’re here too,” he replies. “These things are awful normally, but I – I’m having a really nice time.”

“You handled your dad well,” she offers, hesitant, her fingers tightening a little around his hand.

“I mostly ignored him.”

“Exactly. Don’t undersell that progress.”

He smiles, leaning in to kiss her temple, letting his lips linger for a moment. “ _You_ handled my dad well.”

“All’s fair,” she muses, like she’s talking to herself. Eyebrows raised, she adds, “Think you snagged any of your prey?”

He rolls his eyes, tapping her back lightly. “Stop that.”

She grins at him, then something behind him catches her eye and she smiles fondly. “Your parents are dancing,” she says.

He spots them on the next turn. Orchestrated for pragmatic reasons or not, they met in a ballroom, and it shows. They’re perfectly in step, their rhythm effortless – they almost look like they like each other. Rebecca’s fingers still, her hand dropping to his shoulder, and he meets her curious gaze. “Did she teach you?” she asks.

“Hmm?”

“Your mom. Did she teach you to dance?”

“Oh,” he says. “She did. The first time I had a middle school dance coming up, my au pair got the day off while my mom taught me to waltz.” He smiles, remembering. It was a bright day in a dark month. He stood on her feet so many times. “I was awful.”

“You should go cut in,” she says. “I bet your mom would love to dance with you. See how all her hard work paid off.”

He doesn’t cut in. But several glasses of champagne later, he does dance with his mother – she’s pleasantly surprised, and he suspects secretly pleased to escape the long conversation about property development she’d been the third wheel in. It occurs to him as they dance that he can’t remember the last time they did. She feels a lot smaller than he remembers. She smiles and she tells him she’s glad Rebecca is a good dancer.

* * *

It’s late when they leave, hand in hand, with Rebecca’s heels dangling from her index finger and her eyelids endearingly heavy. She looks up at him on the way through the lobby and smiles a gentle, sleepy smile, then something past his head draws her eye. “You have to kiss me,” she says, the tiniest bit slurred.

“Do I?” He glances up. There’s a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the centre of a chandelier directly above him. “Oh. I guess I do.”

She slinks an arm around his shoulder and they kiss soft and chaste, then she drops her head against his chest and he holds her there. “You okay?”

“Mmhmm. You’re a good date.”

He smiles, rubs her back lightly. “So are you. Come on, let’s get you home.”

She hums, taking his hand again as they head for the door. “You know what I’m excited for?”

“Tell me.”

“Getting out of these Spanx. I feel like I’m wearing a sausage casing.”


	20. Sunday December 20th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca writes a song.

She wakes to a song in her head, a small mountain of bobby pins and a glass of water on her nightstand, and Nathaniel brewing coffee, dressed for a run. While she drinks her coffee and tries to untangle the ideas knotted in her brain, he drinks a green smoothie then starts some torturous looking exercise involving stretches and free weights. She sits at her keyboard and he leans down to kiss her before he leaves for his run, her fingers resting on the keys and his palm warm on her cheek, and it keeps feeling safe and right even as the apartment door closes behind him.

She’s been trying to drag this song out of her subconscious in one form or another since she first started writing down lyrics. It was too vague at first, half-formed thoughts about wanting the kind of attention she couldn’t have, about only looking in the places she knew she wouldn’t find it. Then it was too specific, a too-on-the-nose story about a date to a wedding who arrives in sneakers and won’t look her in the eye. On this revisit, she takes elements from both and pushes them into past tense.

Because her present tense is this. It’s watching him walk away and knowing the pang in her chest is a feeling that will come and go – a quick stab of leftover pain that she doesn’t need to chase down the spiral shaped rabbithole. It’s walking into a ballroom with him, or Central Park, or the lobby of their office building, and knowing without even needing to think about it that he’s comfortable at her side, that he isn’t laughing at her or tired of her or wishing she was something other than what she is. It’s the way loving him feels protective, not destructive – the way she can feel him loving her back without ever needing to go looking for it. It’s knowing she can reach for his hand when everything else is too much, and knowing she can offer the same to him. It’s this trust she has in him that he’ll be something steady, someone who never makes her feel crazy or stupid for feeling things so big.

It’s like she knows she doesn’t need this to be herself, to be okay. But she also knows she wants it, and she’s confident she has it, in a way that she never thought was possible for her.

She turns to a fresh page and starts writing, and her focus narrows to the page in front of her and the abstract space inside her brain where the words meet the music. In her experience, songwriting mostly lives in the spaces between these moments – it’s phrases hastily scribbled on napkins and stuffed into her bag while she’s at lunch, and squinting at the back of receipts trying to decipher her half asleep handwriting, and endless entries in the notes app on her phone that she can’t make any sense of out of context. It’s rare, visiting this place where there’s nothing but her and the writing and she can breathe and watch the song come to life in front of her, and these moments are everything to her – they’re how she knows who she is.

She barely looks up when Nathaniel comes home from his run and heads into the shower. When she starts to feel like she has something resembling a finished draft in front of her, he’s sitting on the sofa with his laptop and a county jail casefile open in front of him, taking notes. She plugs her headphones into her keyboard and plays the music through, muttering the lyrics under her breath, scribbling a couple of quick changes.

Slowly, she pulls herself out of her head and back into the room, catching Nathaniel’s curious expression as she looks up. “Hi,” she says, smiling.

“Hi,” he replies, closing the file he’s been reading. “Productive morning?”

She laughs. “I’ve been out of it, huh?”

“Do I get to hear it?”

Her cheeks warm, and she glances down at her keyboard, chewing her lip. It’s too much right now, too raw and new. But she picks up her notebook hesitantly. “I don’t know if it’s finished yet,” she says. “But you can read it – if um – if you want to.”

“Of course I want to,” he says, shifting his file and laptop onto the coffee table. He asks her all the time to read her songs, and she’s caught him a few times frowning in concentration at her sheet music like he’s trying to hear it in his head. But she’s shy about them until they’re finished – writing to figure herself out means the in-between stages are full of things she doesn’t know until she writes them down and won’t fully understand until she’s spent more time with them. It’s a lot to hand over before she’s done processing it.

She pulls her headphones from around her neck and comes to sit against the arm of the sofa, resting the soles of her feet against his thigh. “My handwriting is awful,” she warns, holding the open notebook out to him.

He closes a hand around it, and she holds onto it half a second too long. “It uh – it seems like you don’t want me to read this,” he says, tilting his head a bit to catch her eye.

“No, I do,” she insists, squeezing her eyes shut for a second then relinquishing her hold. “It’s just that it’s – well, you’ll see. You can read it. If you want.” He looks at her uncertainly, eyebrows slightly raised. “I want you to,” she adds softly.

He gives her foot a reassuring squeeze as he starts to read. She can’t watch at first – she stares down, fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt, twisting it and stretching it and picking at imaginary threads. But then she glances up at him and can’t look away – she watches his eyes move as he reads each line, his expression shifting deeper and more serious.

“It’s about -” she begins, but he’s still reading, so she bites down on her knuckle to shut herself up, her heart fluttering anxiously against her ribs.

A few moments later, he closes the book gently, places it down on the coffee table and shifts to face her. His eyes scan her face for a long moment, and he chews the inside of his lower lip, then reaches for her hand and tugs her toward him. The anxious flutter turns warm, her heart vibrating with affection for him as she climbs into his lap, knees either side of his hips, tracing the line of his jaw with her thumbs as she leans in to kiss him, lacing her fingers together at the back of his neck as their lips press softly together. His hands spread out, gliding from her hips up to her shoulder blades before wrapping around her back and pulling her in close, and she winds her arms around his shoulders and tucks her face into his neck. He turns his head to bury his nose in her hair, and it’s like a soft blanket and the first sip of hot tea and taking off her bra at the end of the day all at once.

She sighs, letting the feeling settle around her, making her brave. “I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you,” she says quietly, sliding her fingertips up the back of his head and toying absently with his hair.

He presses a kiss behind her ear, his arms tightening around her. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough and just barely above a whisper. “You know I feel the same way about you, right?”

“I do,” she whispers. “I know. Which… That’s a whole thing in itself, honestly.”

They stay like that a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other and breathing together in the silence. “I owe you an apology,” Nathaniel says hesitantly. “I told you once – probably more than once – that you were weak.”

She laughs, remembering. _The heart of a weak, dying kitten_ , to be precise. “To be totally fair to past Nathaniel,” she says, “I agreed. And I accused you of being a sociopath on several different occasions, so I can forgive -”

“I was an idiot,” he says, shifting his hands to her hips. She sits up straight and his eyes lock on hers, his expression wide open, all soft and sincere. “I have never been more wrong about anything in my life.”

“Wow,” she says. “That’s -” She swallows around the sudden ache in her throat, blinking away tears with a quiet little laugh and giving his shoulder a playful shove. “And you’ve been wrong a lot of times,” she says, “so that’s… That’s a big deal.”

“Have not,” he says, his mouth quirking into a smile. He reaches up, cupping her face in his palm, and she loops a hand around his wrist as his thumb brushes her cheekbone. “I love you, Rebecca. We make a good team.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Yeah, I think we really do.”


	21. Monday December 21st 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Secret Santa & office Christmas party time, & they don’t get entirely naked, but like, kinda.

Nathaniel gets in early, puts his stack of greeting cards and the envelope containing Darryl’s _Nutcracker_ tickets under the Christmas tree in the bullpen and spends the morning shut in his office, working through his to do list and resolutely ignoring the obvious lack of productivity happening on the other side of the door. The gifts pile up under the tree, the walls are gradually adorned with red, white and green balloons, a hideous MERRY CHRISTMAS banner covers the length of an entire wall, and Nathaniel isn’t smiling about _that_ , obviously.

Sometime around midday, he looks up to find Jim and Tim putting snowflake stickers on his office window, and throws his water polo ball at them, smirking when it bounces off the window right between their heads and they scatter.

Towers of red plastic cups appear on the conference table, along with a crate of beer and a case of wine, and he finally emerges mid-afternoon, when Maya wheels in a karaoke machine. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says. “What is that for?”

“Didn’t you read the evite?” she says, wide eyed. “I sent out the order of business. First is festive snacks and drinks and Secret Santa gift exchange, then it’s Christmas karaoke.”

“Of course it is,” he says. He pinches the bridge of his nose, counts to five in his head. “Alright, well, not until three, so…” He looks down at his watch then around at the flurry of not-lawyering going on around them, the futility of telling her to get some work done in the next twenty minutes too obvious to ignore. With a sigh, he waves her away and she scuttles off, wheeling the karaoke machine in front of her.

He walks to the elevator and pushes _down_ , but when the doors slide open Rebecca’s standing there with her rolling cart full of pretzels and drinks, wearing a green dress under her apron and a string of multicoloured lights around her neck. “Hi!” she says brightly. “Are you ready for the Mountaintop Office Christmas Party Featuring Rebetzel’s?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She laughs, rolling her cart past him then stopping to pick up one of the drinks. “It’s sweet how unconvincing your Scrooge act is,” she says, holding it out to him. “One black coffee, Ebenezer.”

He takes it. “Thank you. So how’d you snag an invitation to the social event of the season?” he says, prodding an inflatable reindeer hanging from the ceiling.

Adopting the old timey detective voice, she replies, “You wouldn’t believe what some feminine wiles and a mountain of pretzels can buy you in this town, sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was _this close_ to saying I was glad you’re here.”

Grinning, she pushes the cart toward the conference table, and he follows, finally giving up on getting any more work done and leaning against the edge of the table as she arranges trays of pretzels on it. She stands back and looks at them critically, then when she’s satisfied she unties her apron, pulls it over her head and throws it over the cart, which she rolls into a corner and abandons. “It’s looking festive in here,” she says, looking around at the tacky decorations with a smile.

“You’re looking pretty festive yourself,” he replies, gesturing to the string lights around her neck. “Where’d that come from?”

“It was my Christmas gift from AJ,” she says, looking down at it happily. “I got him chocolate coins for Hanukkah, and he got me this!”

“Good of him.”

She grins and brushes a hand down his arm. He catches her fingertips between his and gives them a quick squeeze.

Attracted by the food offering, people start descending on the table, and as Rebecca distributes their coffees, he finds himself confusingly in the middle of the unmistakable buzz of an office party he’s spent the day pretending to disapprove of. It’s not so terrible. 

“Who’s excited for Secret Santa?” Darryl all but yells when he arrives, back in his hideous Christmas sweater. The scattered, lukewarm cheer he gets in response seems to delight him.

He appoints Rebecca Santa, and she happily distributes the cards and gifts – she dramatically calls everyone’s names as she reads them on the gift tags, and saves Nathaniel’s for last, sitting down beside him at the table and grabbing a pretzel to eat. His gift is distinctly bottle-shaped, wrapped in silver paper with a candy cane tied to it, and she laughs at the tag before handing it to him. He glances down at it and smiles: _For Nathaniel, who’s nice now_. “Do you know who this was?” he asks her curiously as he peels off the tape and unwraps it. It’s a bottle of scotch, the kind he used to keep in a decanter in his office pre-Guatemala.

She squints at the handwriting on the tag and shakes her head. “Huh. No, I can’t tell. The suspect pool is too big now that so many people like you.”

His cheeks warm unexpectedly and he looks up, watching everyone open their gifts. Tim’s is a watch he doesn’t need to share with anyone. Maya’s involves crystals and moon phases in a way Nathaniel is certain he doesn’t want to understand in detail. His eyes seek out Darryl, who has his _Nutcracker_ tickets held against his chest and is looking at the ceiling, blinking away tears. Nathaniel extracts the candy cane from his gift wrap and hands it to Rebecca. “I think this was probably meant for you,” he says, standing. “I’m going to go offer our babysitting services to Darryl.”

She happily abandons her pretzel and unwraps the candy cane, resting the end daintily on her lips and sucking it into her mouth, her eyes locked on his. _Jesus_. He pointedly looks away, and she grins. “He’s gonna cry on you,” she warns.

He taps Darryl on the shoulder, more surprised than he probably should be when he’s wrapped tight in a hug a second later. Wincing, he wraps his arms loosely around Darryl’s back, gives him a quick pat between his shoulder blades before stepping back, clearing his throat. “We’re more than happy to babysit,” he says, gesturing at the tickets still clasped tight in Darryl’s hand. “Hebby and Ella, I mean. We can come to your place, or they can spend the night at our apartment – whatever works best…”

He trails off, smiling feebly as Darryl takes a deep breath and clasps his shoulder in a vicelike grip. “This is such a thoughtful gift,” he says, his voice wobbling all over the place.

Nathaniel pats him on the shoulder again, squeezing a little for good measure before letting go. “It’s okay,” he says. “Really. Merry Christmas, Darryl.” Then, because Darryl really looks like he might cry and he doesn’t know how to engage with that but can’t bring himself to walk away, Nathaniel comes to stand at his side, leans in and says, “Who’d you get?”

Darryl looks around before answering in a stage whisper, “George. Ooh, look, he’s opening it!”

Nathaniel follows his gaze to George, who’s sitting at the table opposite Rebecca, pulling the paper off a large box. Nathaniel snorts when he sees what’s inside. “The luxury soft bonnet hairdryer,” Darryl says fondly. “He’s so proud of that ponytail.” George looks up and Darryl waves at him like a kid on a carousel.

Laughing into the back of her hand, Rebecca catches Nathaniel’s eye. She drops her hand, grins at him, then puts the candy cane back in her mouth and swirls her tongue around it, eyes sparkling.

* * *

Somebody cracks open the first beer and it’s all downhill from there. Christmas karaoke starts out exactly as torturous as Nathaniel expected. Maya is about as good in real life as she had been in his imagination. Jim lost a bet at some point last week that results in a mortifying rendition of _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_ , complete with antlers on a headband. Nathaniel survives nearly an hour of it on a couple of measures of scotch and Rebecca’s increasingly ridiculous teasing with the candy cane – he can’t take his eyes off her, exasperated and aroused in roughly equal measure. Then Darryl grabs her hand and hands her the mic and _of fucking_ _course_ she’s singing _Santa Baby_ , looking him dead in the eye the entire time, and it would be embarrassing if he thought anyone else was really paying any attention.

They excuse themselves not long after – apart from anything else, the party is starting to descend into _time for bosses to leave_ chaos – and the second the elevator doors slide shut she turns to him with a wicked glint in her eye, reaching up to slide her hand around the back of his neck, dragging her nails through his hair. His entire scalp tingles, and he swallows the groan that crawls up his throat as his hands drift of their own accord to her hips. “You know,” she practically purrs, pouting a little. “I think I left my purse in the back room of Rebetzel’s. You should help me find it.”

And okay, he can’t take his eyes off her lips, and his body is humming with arousal, but they’ve come a long way since quickies in storage rooms – he opens his mouth to say as much, then the tip of her index finger lands feather-light on his lips and the elevator dings and the doors open. She drops her hand to his, gives it a light, reassuring squeeze, then pulls her lip between her teeth and walks purposefully toward Rebetzel’s, straight to the door to the back room, and he’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the way she’s swaying her hips just a little more than usual as she walks. His legs are following her before he knows what he’s doing.

She grins when he walks through the door, reaching past him to lock it behind them then pulling down the blinds. “You were really gonna make me wait til we got home?” she says, low and silky, pressing herself fully against him, arms wrapping around his neck. “When you were eye fucking me that entire party?”

He lets out a surprised laugh, his hands landing low on her back to hold her body against his. “ _I_ was? You’ve got to be kidding me. If you still worked there, someone would’ve filed an HR complaint on behalf of that candy cane.”

She laughs and drops the sexy demeanour for a second, resting a hand on his cheek. “Hey, for real though, is this okay? As your designated driver, I feel like I should make sure you’re sober enough to consent before I blow you in this storage room.”

“Jesus, Rebecca,” he laughs, dropping his head back against the door. “Two drinks. You need me to recite the alphabet backward?”

“Ooh, sexy,” she replies, waggling her eyebrows. “Okay, just checking. Back to business.”

She pushes up on her toes to kiss him, sliding his suit jacket down his arms and letting it drop to the floor, tugging his tie from around his neck. She tastes like mint and sugar, the room smells vaguely of cinnamon, and the length of her body moves soft and warm and pliant against him. He’s already drowning in the sensory overload, then her hands come down to his wrists, giving them a quick squeeze before unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. Two drinks down, his reactions are slower than hers – lost in the feel and taste of her tongue in his mouth, by the time he’s fully cognizant of her hands landing on his belt, she’s already unbuckled it and her fingers are deftly opening his zipper. “You want this?” she whispers against his still parted lips.

His eyes drop shut as his heart rate doubles, every nerve pulsing with desire. Her fingernails graze over the front of his boxers and he gasps, his hips twitching involuntarily forward. “Feels like you want it,” she says lightly.

“Rebecca,” he groans.

“Mm?” she hums, flattening her palm against him and rubbing.

“I – fuck, Rebecca. Yes.”

Eyes still squeezed tight shut, he feels her slide down the length of his body – she untucks his shirt and slides her hands under it, raking her nails up his sides then back down, presses her lips to his stomach and kisses a trail down, and his body is on fire everywhere she touches. She pauses a second with her fingers hooked in his waistband, and he shudders in anticipation, grabs a handful of her hair to anchor himself as she slides his pants and underwear down and takes him into her mouth in one motion. A low moan tumbles from his lips as her tongue trails the length of him, and he feels her smile in response. She swirls her tongue around his tip then takes him back in, then repeats, over and over, her mouth pulling tight and hot and wet around him, and the rest of the world disappears and there is only this, only her. He drags his eyes open to look down at her, and her eyes meet his, her lips locked around him, and she is so, so beautiful. “You’re -” he whispers, then she sucks hard and a broken, guttural sound breaks free from deep in his chest, his skin tingling all over, his vision narrowing dangerously. Struggling to keep himself still, fighting the fire she’s stoking with every movement, he lets go of her hair and flattens his hands against the door. “Stop,” he breathes.

She pulls back, hands on his hips, rocking back on her heels. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, panting. “You’re good at that.”

She grins. “I can keep going. I’m having fun.”

He shakes his head and takes her hands, tugs her to her feet and pulls her to his chest, holding her tight against him while he catches his breath. “You are so beautiful,” he breathes.

“Aw, and you’re so mushy,” she replies, then tilts her chin up to capture him again in a bruising kiss. She pulls back a bit, reaches under the neckline of her dress and, as if from nowhere, produces a condom and presses it into his hand – he opens his mouth to ask her how long exactly that’s been in there, then her mouth is back on his and it turns out he doesn’t care all that much. She winds a hand around his neck, and with his hands on her hips he guides her toward the counter and backs her up against it, wraps his arms around her waist to boost her up onto it and wastes no time sliding his hand under her dress, his palm flat against the soft skin of her thigh. She pushes her hips forward as his hand slides higher, and he finds the fabric of her underwear and pushes it aside, slides his fingers underneath. “ _Ahh_ ,” she breathes against his mouth, her thighs twitching. “Nathaniel, oh my god.” She’s already soaking wet, and when he circles around her clit with his fingertips her whole body shudders and her head drops back. “Told you I was having fun,” she breathes, a hint of tease in her voice – a strangled sound escapes him as he grabs her hips and pulls her toward him, dragging her underwear off and abandoning it on the floor at his feet.

His fingers tremble as he gets the condom on, and she lets out a long, low moan as he pushes inside her that sends a tongue of flame straight down his spine to where their bodies join. Precariously near the edge again, he grips her hips hard, drops his forehead to her shoulder and holds still, letting the heat of her soak into him, taking slow, deep breaths. She shifts against him, arms looped tight around his neck, and he starts to move, rocking into her slowly at first – she hisses, wraps her legs around his thighs and starts grinding against him, finding an angle and a rhythm that will destroy them both in no time, and he’s more than happy to follow her lead. He lets his hands and his mouth wander as he matches her tempo, kissing her neck and her jaw and her collarbone as she starts to come apart around him, her fingers scrabbling at his back. She grabs his face and pulls his mouth to hers to muffle her cry as she comes, and he’s right there with her, flying apart and losing control, white knuckling the counter with the effort of keeping himself quiet and keeping them both upright.

They stay like that an indeterminable amount of time, wrapped around each other and breathing hard as the rest of the world comes back into focus.

“Well, fuck,” she says eventually. “I have been thinking about that all day.”

“Mmm.” He noses at her jaw, presses a quick kiss to her thrumming pulse, then pulls back and starts to clean up. “I could tell,” he says lightly.

She hops down off the counter, and he feels a little surge of gratification at the way she has to hold onto it to steady herself for a second. She picks her underwear up off the floor and stuffs it in her purse, then grabs his tie and jacket and holds them while he puts himself back together. He holds his hand out for them, and she grins as she passes them over. “Think you’ll be ready for round two by the time we get home?”


	22. Tuesday December 22nd 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel talks gifts & commitment with Paula, & Rebecca has been having some commitment thoughts of her own.

“ _He-ey_.” Paula waves a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Nathaniel. Yoo-hoo. You okay in there?”

He gives himself a little shake, dragging his mind back to Homebase, and the casefile open in front of him. “Sorry,” he says. “Yes. I think if we file the -”

“Oh, nuh uh,” Paula says. “Where’d you go? That was like, Rebecca level mind wandering. You were mid-sentence and you just -” She demonstrates an exaggerated gaze into the distance, disturbingly accurate in its Rebecca-ness.

He clears his throat, and she raises her eyebrows suspiciously. “I’m gonna get more coffee,” he says decisively, sliding out of the booth. “Can I get you anything?” He frowns down at her empty mug, her second since they started. “Water? Is now a good time to lecture you about caffeine and cardiac health?”

“Depends on whether you want to live to see tomorrow,” she replies, smiling dangerously.

“Do _you_?”

She gives him a warning look, then pats his hand and sits back, pulls the file closer on the table. “I will have a water, please.”

He’s been distracted all day, because today Rebecca’s Christmas gift arrives. Right after this meeting with Paula, before he goes to pick Rebecca up from therapy, he’s meeting the delivery people at the apartment to take it into the storage space he rents in the building, where it’ll stay until Christmas morning. He didn’t expect to be nervous about it, but, well. He kind of is.

When he sits back down opposite Paula, sliding her water across the table toward her, she’s still looking at him like a person with a mystery to solve, showing every sign she’s not going to drop it. He sighs, stirring his coffee then pushing it to the side, resting his clasped hands on the table. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Oh, I _love_ a secret,” she says, leaning forward eagerly, then her expression abruptly turns accusatory. “It’s a good secret, right?”

“I think a good secret, yes,” he replies, and her expression clears. God, she’s terrifying when she wants to be. “And that wasn’t the question. _Can_ you keep a secret from Rebecca for the next three days?”

“Oooh, a _Christmas_ secret,” she says enthusiastically. “Of course I can, I’m a parent. What did you get her? It isn’t a puppy, is it?”

“What? No, it’s not a – It’s…” He steels himself, because now that he’s about to say it out loud, he’s less sure of himself than ever. He has a lot of social strengths – he’s a good planner, a good arguer, he knows how to turn on the charm when he needs to and it nearly always works. But try as he might, he has never been any good at anticipating how people will react to things, and the thought of Paula thinking this is a terrible idea is kind of crushing. “It’s a piano?” He catches the uncertainty too late, cringing at the way it comes out like a question.

“A – wow.” She leans back, staring at him, an expression of thoughtful surprise all over her face. “Huh. You are really rich. I don’t know how I always forget how rich you are.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for a more substantial thought than _you’re rich_ , but she says nothing else, just smiles at him. “Well?” he prompts.

“Well?” she teases. “Come on, you’re nervous about that? That’s perfect! She’ll love it. I mean, I don’t know where you’re going to keep it in that apartment, but -” He presses his lips together and her eyes go wide, her mouth turning into a perfect ‘o’. “ _Ohhhh_ ,” she says, catching on. “Oh, I get it! It’s a piano and a proposal!”

He flinches, his subconscious unhelpfully offering up an image of the ring he still has locked away in a safe. “Not a -”

“A piano and a moving-house-together proposal,” she corrects herself, waving her hand dismissively. “A commitment piano.”

He drags a hand over his face, his heart rate picking up. That’s exactly what he’s afraid of. “Is it a terrible idea?” he says, abandoning any pretence of confidence. “I still have time to buy her something else.”

She reaches across the table to give his hand a quick squeeze, taking him by surprise. Paula’s friendship has been one of his more unexpected gains since returning to West Covina. He knows she’d murder him in an instant if he hurt Rebecca, of course, but somehow that only makes him like her more. “I mean, you already live together,” she reminds him. “And your apartment is the definition of _bachelor pad_.” He opens his mouth to object, and but she holds up a ‘nope’ finger. “It is tiny and ridiculous, Nathaniel, piano or no piano. It’s like forty percent Christmas tree right now. This makes sense. You have somewhere to keep it until you move, right?” He nods, and she shrugs, spreading her hands. “Well then, you’re fine,” she says, like that’s the end of it. “No pressure. Just the promise of a real honest-to-god piano whenever you have somewhere to put it. She’ll love it.”

He nods slowly. “Thank you. That helps.”

She grins. “Any time.” She taps the casefile between them decisively. “Now let’s get a lady out of jail.”

* * *

They were both guarded when he first came home – tentative and careful, both acutely aware they’d already burned through too many chances. It was difficult to really know what taking it slow was supposed to look like, having laid all his cards on the table and watched them go up in smoke countless times, then walked all the way away and found her still there when he came back, bright and beautiful and eager to know him. And it can’t have been easy for her either, because she doesn’t do things by degrees – she throws her arms wide and runs headlong into everything she ever does. She loves with blazing ferocity, and watching her try to temper it was tough in all kinds of ways. But they’d been working at it, spending plenty of time with other people, going out on real dates and fumbling their way through painfully honest conversations about abandonment issues and panic attacks and personality disorders.

Then he paid the price for missing his flu shot – annoyingly out of season, his usually rock solid immune system failed him, and he cancelled dinner with no explanation. He did it because he didn’t want to worry her, because he didn’t want to sound like he was asking her for help, because he was too exhausted and spending too much of his time with his head in the toilet to really think about the effect it might have. She showed up at his apartment in a panic about his text, and stood in his doorway, looking at him looking like death, and he watched her expression rearrange from wild panic to concern. He started to tell her he was disgusting and she should leave before he made her sick too, but his roiling stomach had other ideas. By the time he emerged from the bathroom again she had cleaned all his dishes, changed his gross sheets, and made him peppermint tea. Exhaustion winning out over embarrassment, he collapsed back onto his bed, and she sat against the headboard and stroked his hair, found his well-worn paperback copy of _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_ and started reading it aloud – to herself, she insisted when he mumbled some half-hearted objection – while he drifted in and out of fitful, feverish sleep.

It had never occurred to him that being with her had never felt peaceful, until it did. Then her lease was up for renewal and his wasn’t, and it had made sense for her to move in with him.

Courtesy of a generous tip, the delivery guys leave the piano on moving dollies, so all he’ll have to do on Christmas morning is roll it from the storage room to the elevator, then into their apartment. A fresh wave of anxiety hits him when he sees it, solid and real and so clearly too big for their space, because once she’s seen it there’ll be no backing out of the conversation, but he thinks Paula’s right. He chose the studio apartment for a lot of reasons when he first moved to West Covina, but none of them really apply to his current life – he was starting to outgrow it even before she moved in. And she has a lot more stuff than he does, both practical and sentimental. She has a ridiculously large and oddly diverse collection of clothes, all of which she insists she needs. Their combined book collection mostly lives in underbed boxes. Her keyboard spends most of its time leaning against a wall on its end, the stand folded up and shoved under a bench, and she has a stack of notebooks almost as tall as her nightstand. It just makes sense for them to move. To live somewhere free of the baggage of all the messes they made while they learned to face up to themselves, where her energy and creativity can stretch out and take up all the space they need.

He knows he’s pushed her too far too fast before, trying to give her everything before she was ready for it – with some prodding from Doctor Akopian, he reached the uncomfortable conclusion that his impulse to whisk her away was never entirely about her. But this feels right-sized. Like a step they’re ready for.

He ties a ridiculous red bow around the piano with some difficulty – because Rebecca loves a bit of theatricality – then goes to pick her up from therapy.

They half watch a documentary about coral reefs together while Rebecca writes therapy homework in her notebook, stretched out on the sofa on her side with her feet in his lap. He rests his hands over her fuzzy socks while she writes, then she sits up, closes her notebook and puts it down on the coffee table. “Can I ask you something?” she says quietly.

“Of course.”

“It’s a – a thing from our past,” she says. “And it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. I’m curious, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“Okay,” he says cautiously, turning the volume down on the TV.

“It came up in therapy today – not in like, a bad way – in a good way actually, just…” She trails off, chewing her thumb, and he tugs her hand gently from her mouth and holds it, waiting. She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, takes a breath, then looks at him and just comes out with it. “Did you really buy me a ring?”

He winces before he can catch himself, and she opens her mouth immediately to apologise.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and she smiles, eyes on his and all concern. “It’s okay, sweetheart, really. Yes. I did.”

She nods slowly, and he tilts his head, trying to read her expression. There are too many conflicting emotions there for him to figure it out. “Do you -” he begins uncertainly. “Do you want to know – anything else? Because I’ve thought about it a lot and uh – it’s come up in therapy for me too. Obviously.”

She breathes a tiny laugh. “Makes sense,” she says. “I’m sorry, I know this is weird to talk about now. The whole thing was so stupid. We really don’t need to.”

“It’s alright. If there’s anything you want to know, I’ll do my best.”

“I guess – yeah. I would like to know what, um…”

“What I was thinking?” he says, smiling a little.

She scrunches her nose. “Kinda?”

He takes a slow breath. The timing could be better, with his panic about the commitment piano fresh and humming right under the surface, but it was always going to come up, and he _has_ thought about it a lot. He stares at a shoal of fish on the silent television as he tries to organise his response, and she rests her arm on the back of the sofa, her hand landing on his shoulder. “The first thing you need to know,” he says, watching her expression carefully, not quite sure what reaction he’s expecting, “is that I absolutely would’ve given you the ring, if you chose me. And I would’ve meant it. And I – I would have no regrets.”

Her eyes go soft and sad. “Nathaniel…”

“But I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Okay,” she breathes, relief obvious in her voice. She smiles, takes his hand and pulls it into her lap, holding it flat against the warmth of her thigh. “Me too. But – you know what I mean. Go on.”

“Right. So it was two things, really. Buying the ring was like betting on myself – which I also did, by the way, because I was an idiot. It was a show of confidence. For myself, mostly, because who else was I kidding?” He gives her a quiet, rueful smile. He can feel his heart in his throat – he grips her thigh to resist the urge to tug at the collar of his t-shirt. “So that was buying the ring,” he says with determination. “Actually wanting to give it to you was… I wanted security, I guess? I was out at sea just _wanting_ you for so long, I wanted to… To know I had you, if I did. And for you to know you had me too – I guess I thought that would feel… Comforting.”

“That’s…” she begins, then trails off, just gazing at him thoughtfully, head tilted and eyebrows pulled together.

“I was an idiot,” he concludes. 

“No,” she says softly. “That’s all… Very understandable. Relatable. I um – yeah. I relate, Past Nathaniel.”

He smiles weakly and looks down, breathing through the tight feeling in his chest, and she kneels on the sofa cushion at his side, facing him, sliding a hand around to the back of his neck. “Hey, look at me.” His eyes find hers, clear blue green and focused. She slides her hand lower and presses her fingers against his quickening pulse, then climbs into his lap, a grounding weight, and wraps her arms tight around him. He rests his forehead in the crook of her neck and matches his breaths to hers. “Okay?” she says softly.

“Yeah. You?”

“I am.” She combs his fingers through his hair, grazes her lips softly against his temple. “Thank you, for that. I know it’s weird. And… A lot.”

“It’s okay.”

She sits back, taps his shoulders decisively. “Okay. You want to finish watching your fish show?”


	23. Wednesday December 23rd 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca & Nathaniel babysit.

They arrive at Darryl’s house around bedtime. Darryl answers the door in a three piece suit and a tie with little Christmas trees all over it. “We celebrate Christmas at a ten,” he explains unprompted, gesturing at his outfit. The inside of the house looks like an explosion in a tinsel factory – it’s both entirely expected and a little overwhelming, and Rebecca blinks around curiously as she absorbs the sensory overload, avoiding eye contact with Nathaniel, whose distaste is at war with his WASPy politeness. While April gives Nathaniel a rundown of baby instructions, Darryl leads Rebecca into Hebby’s bedroom, where she’s laying on top of the covers in a zebra onesie, her thumb in her mouth and a picture book clutched to her chest. “Hi,” Rebecca says quietly. Hebby looks round and her face breaks into a smile – she picks up the book, holds it out in Darryl’s direction and babbles a few nonsense syllables.

“The bedtime story is a very important tradition,” Darryl explains. “Hebby, Rebecca’s gonna join us for this one, alright?”

“Uh huh.”

“Oh, it’s okay -” Rebecca begins, but Darryl sits and pats the bed beside him, so she sits too, expecting to feel awkward and anxious, prepared to grit her teeth and count her breaths to get through it. Then Hebby climbs into her lap and flops forward, settling against her chest. And it’s okay. She lets out a long, slow breath. “Hey there,” she says, looking down at Hebby’s tangle of loose, dark curls, then up at Darryl, who’s smiling wide, eyes tearing up. “Well, my boobs are finally fulfilling their destiny as baby pillows,” she says. “Think we’re ready for that story now.”

Hand to his chest, Darryl gives her an encouraging smile. “If you get stressed, sniff the head,” he reminds her in a stage whisper. “It still works. Ella’s too.”

“I will keep that in mind,” she says, sitting back against the wall, settling Hebby more comfortably against her chest, and Darryl starts to read _Guess How Much I Love You_.

As he reads, Hebby goes heavy and sleepy in her arms, tiny fingers holding a handful of her sweater, and Rebecca holds her loosely, one hand resting on her back. She hasn’t forgotten the terror that used to grip her every time she so much as thought about Hebby’s existence, and honestly, if she lets herself think too far ahead it’s still there in the back of her mind, especially as she gets older and Rebecca’s genetic influence on her appearance gets clearer. But at Doctor Akopian’s recommendation and with Nathaniel’s encouragement, Rebecca has made a point of spending a little more time with her over the past six months or so. And, maybe predictably, she’s much less terrifying as a real living breathing toddler than as an abstract symbol of Rebecca’s poor impulse control and questionable life choices. She’s sweet and confident and curious, and as Rebecca holds her sleepy form, she feels warmly protective in a way that doesn’t freak her out nearly as much as she would’ve expected.

“’Gain,” Hebby mumbles, the second Darryl reads the last word of the book.

It’s time for Darryl to leave, but he tells her Rebecca will read the book again if she gets under the covers. Rebecca braces for tears, but none come – Hebby happily accepts the deal, and Darryl tucks her into bed then hands the book to Rebecca, along with a long string of tearful thank yous. “It’s okay,” Rebecca says, muffled by his shoulder as he hugs her. “We’ve got this. You go have fun, okay? You’re gonna love it.”

When he leaves, Rebecca sits down on the floor by the bed, and Hebby looks at her with sleepy, expectant eyes. “’Gain?” Rebecca listens to the front door shut, then the sound of Nathaniel’s approaching footsteps. He appears in the open doorway with Ella cradled in his arms, leans against the frame. “It’s just me, little monkey,” he says quietly, when Hebby looks up. Rebecca’s heart does a little backflip. She smiles back up him, then starts to read. She’s awkward and a little self-conscious at first – in comparison to Darryl’s expert reading, Rebecca feels like a bit of a fraud, but Hebby clearly doesn’t care. Her eyelids get heavy, her breaths get slow and deep, and by the time Rebecca finishes reading, she’s fast asleep.

Rebecca closes the book gently then smooths Hebby’s blanket down over her back. She looks smaller when she’s asleep, her mouth slightly open and one little hand smushed up against her chubby cheek. “She sleeps like you,” Nathaniel says with a quiet smile.

For some reason she can’t quite figure out, the thought of walking away makes her chest ache. She sits there too long, watching Hebby sleep and wanting to build a bubble around her, wanting to freeze this safe, peaceful moment for her. Eventually, she gives herself a shake. It isn’t _leaving_ _her_. “We’re just in the living room if you need us,” she whispers, clicking the night light off.

They make their way to the sofa, and Rebecca sits down heavily, lets out a slow breath. Nathaniel sits down beside her, and she shuffles in close, resting her head on his shoulder. “Hey, even tinier baby,” she says softly. Ella’s still awake, but quiet and content, making tiny gurgly sounds. “I feel really okay,” she muses. “I thought it’d be worse, after the whole thing with my mom. But I feel okay. She’s just… Cute.”

“She is cute,” Nathaniel agrees, and plants a kiss on the top of her head. “I love you. You’re doing great.”

She sighs and reaches over to touch Ella’s hand. “You’re cute too, obviously,” she tells her. Impossibly tiny fingers wrap around her index finger, and she looks up at Nathaniel with a delighted smile. “Look! She likes me! They never like me.”

“Rebecca,” he admonishes. “Does ‘they never like me’ mean one baby cried in your presence once when you were already fragile?”

She stills, thinking about it. “Yes it does,” she admits. “Good guess.” Ella’s fingers tighten around hers and she grins, her heart swelling. “Look how tiny she is,” she breathes.

“She’s okay, for a baby,” he replies, supremely unconvincing, adjusting the feet of Ella’s onesie and shifting her against his chest, cradling her close as she starts to wriggle.

Rebecca snorts. “Yeah, you’re really hating this, huh?”

* * *

Nathaniel suspected based on April’s long list of reassurances and instructions that they were in the calm before the storm, and it turns out he was kind of right. Ella starts crying – her perfect little face turns brick red, her eyes squeeze shut, and she emits a long, high-pitched mewl that’s unlike any sound he’s ever heard coming from a human. She stops, pulls in a deep breath, and it starts again, louder and higher and totally unbearable. It’s around the time April said she should get hungry, so he passes her over to a reluctant Rebecca so he can get her formula ready, and when he comes back Rebecca’s standing in the middle of the living room with Ella cradled in her arms at an odd angle, patting her back, singing softly and revolving in a slow circle. Ella is snuffly and restless, but not screaming. “I have no idea why this is working,” Rebecca says, her voice incongruously high and sing-song, “but it is, so I’m not gonna stop until the milk is in her mouth.”

Between the two of them, with difficulty, they find a position Ella is willing to stay in long enough to get the bottle in her mouth. She’s all determination as she drinks it, eyes crossed to focus on the bottle, tiny hands gripping his fingers. Milk starts dripping down her chin. “You know,” he says as he mops it up with a cloth, “this is _exactly_ the same as a baby monkey. Literally nothing about this is different.”

“Mm, nothing makes you confront your own mammal-ness like hanging out with a baby,” Rebecca agrees. “Like, did you know that under the right circumstances, my breasts could _produce milk_?”

He laughs. “I did know that, yes.”

“Well, so did I, but I feel like I didn’t _actually know it_ until the first time I held Hebby as a baby and she stuck her face right in my boob.”

They get through the bottle, and there’s a brief calm as Ella’s milk-drunk eyelids get sleepy, blinking long and slow, her tiny body going heavy and still in his arms. Then there’s the smell. Their eyes meet in slowly dawning horror. “I’m out,” Rebecca says immediately, pulling her sweater up over her wrinkled nose. “You’ve shovelled way more poop than I have.”

Eyebrows raised, he bounces Ella, now getting restless again. “And how much poop have you shovelled, exactly?”

“Zero,” she replies immediately. “This is your time to shine, Plimpton.”

He starts to open his mouth to put up a fight, then the screaming starts again. Rebecca vanishes and comes back with a changing mat and diaper bag, her face still half hidden inside her sweater, and nothing matters more than turning the screaming demon in his arms back into a happy, sleepy baby. In reality, it takes the two of them – Rebecca holds Ella’s feet out of the way and sings songs about poop at her while Nathaniel deals with the business end, his jaw clenched, breathing as little as possible. He’s much less squeamish now than he was pre-Guatemala, but that was a low bar to jump, and this is still disgusting. He wrestles the new diaper onto her and leaves Rebecca to get her onesie back on while he disposes of the old one.

When he comes back, Rebecca is stretched out on the floor beside Ella, her nose on her head and hand on her belly. “You should sniff her head,” she says dreamily. “It makes it all better.”

“Mm, I’ll get right on that.”

“I’m serious!” she says. “Try it.”

He does. She’s kind of right.

She sits up and picks Ella up from the floor, clambering awkwardly onto the sofa with her legs crossed in front of her, and cradling the baby against her chest. Sleepy again, Ella’s fist comes up to rub at her eyes and she yawns, her tiny mouth stretching wide. “Babies are disgusting,” he says lightly, coming to sit beside them.

Rebecca hums agreement, leaning against his shoulder and cradling Ella in one arm, patting her back with the other.

By the time Darryl calls to check on them in the interval, they’re cuddling on the sofa watching _The Holiday_ , both girls asleep in their beds.


	24. Thursday December 24th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca & Nathaniel have Christmas Eve Dinner at the Plimpton house, then they get naked.

He dresses to go to dinner at his parents’ house like he’s dressing for work, so she wears lawyer clothes too, going for a conservative neckline, heels and a ponytail, singing along with a Christmas playlist while they get ready. She does her makeup in the bathroom mirror, figuring the harsher light in there will prepare her for Nathaniel Plimpton Senior’s judgemental gaze. She presses her lips together to blot her lipstick then smiles at herself in the mirror. Nathaniel steps around the bathroom door and looks her over with a half smile as she puts in earrings. “Did you do that on purpose?” he asks.

“What?” she says, looking down at her dress as he steps up behind her. “Too formal? Not formal enough?”

He slides his hands down her waist, resting them on her hips and squeezing gently. “Perfect,” he says. “It’s just um – this is the dress you were wearing the first time you kissed me.”

“Oh,” she says, staring at her reflection. The elevator all nighter dress. She’s surprised at herself for not making the connection immediately, but to be fair, a lot of her Whitefeather wardrobe has Nathaniel woven into the fabric. Her eyes find his in the mirror. “Huh. You want me to change, or will this be a welcome distraction?”

He smiles and leans around to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful.”

She leans back into him and watches his reflection as he wraps himself around her, tucking his face into the crook of her neck. “You ready?” she asks.

He kisses right above the neckline of her dress then straightens up, hands on her shoulders. “I’m dressed and out of excuses,” he offers.

“Close enough. Let’s roll.”

* * *

The Plimpton house is ridiculously formal, and cuts out several of her usual parent-charming shortcuts. There’s no escape to be found in offering to help set the table, for example, which is done by their housekeeper, or help with cooking, which is in the hands of a private chef. The Ivy League education is standard here, and since she’s certain she’s the only one in the room who has ever eaten an entire pretzel, her business is supremely unimpressive. She doesn’t mind much, though – she thinks Nathaniel’s mom likes her a little even if she’d never say so. She’s pretty sure his dad doesn’t like anything, and there’s nothing much she can do about that. She feels a low hum of automatic panic about losing all her signature moves, but when Plimpton Senior turns a critical eye on her, she tells herself that nothing could make Nathaniel reconsider her rightness for him faster than his garbage father’s unconditional approval.

They begin the evening in a reception room sipping pre-dinner martinis, and Rebecca channels every ounce of effort into keeping her expression neutral she drinks hers. She catches Nathaniel’s eye behind his parents’ backs briefly and pulls a _bleugh_ face, and his lips quirk into a half smile. He raises his glass by a tiny fraction and tips his head in her direction, and she grins.

They sit opposite each other at the table. The dining room is all dark wood and crystal and busy wallpaper, the table absurdly long and set like a trap for someone who didn’t go to prep school. In group therapy, they’ve been practising letting thoughts drift by, imagining them as logs on a river. She watches two go simultaneously as she looks at her table setting then up at Nathaniel: _is this a test?_ and _not everything is about you, Rebecca_. As it happens, she has navigated plenty of fancy dinners in her time, so she does fine.

The dinner conversation is mostly dull and polite, and she has never been more confident in her decision to leave real estate law behind. She already knew about his father’s collection of ridiculous sayings, of course, but hearing them in the flesh in Nathaniel’s childhood home – in a room with Christmas tree in it, no less – brings the whole thing into starker relief than ever before. “Distraction is the enemy of productivity,” he says, with a look at Nathaniel so sharp she’s surprised he doesn’t start bleeding on the spot. “When you get distracted you stop improving, and when you stop improving, you start losing.” Nathaniel’s jaw clenches hard, he glances involuntarily in Rebecca’s direction, and she pushes aside the discomfort winding around her chest, catches his eye and takes a slow sip of her drink. His expression expertly neutral, he holds the eye contact and he sips his own. Which is how they turn Nathaniel Plimpton Senior into a drinking game that gets them all the way to dessert.

Seeing Nathaniel in this house feels weird, and kind of sad in a way she knows he’d hate. She was prepared for the shift to rigid formality the minute they walked in the door, but it’s still unsettling. She’s made a lot of progress in the field of reading him, but she realises now as they sit straight-backed and opposite each other, awash in his mother’s distance and his father’s disapproval, how much of it is built on touch. From the first moment they touched on the night of the masquerade he never really seemed to want to stop, and sitting here breathing the oddly oppressive air of the house he grew up in, she thinks she understands it better than ever. She wants to reach out and take both his hands and shake the tension out of him; she wants to take a running jump into his arms so he has no choice but to dip to catch her; she wants to hold his face in her hands and crush her lips to his. She settles for smiling warm and soft every time he looks in her direction, and taking synchronised sips of wine for each passive aggressive adage.

* * *

The moment the apartment door closes behind them, his hands are cupping her jaw, tilting her face up to his – he kisses her slowly and precisely, and she pushes his suit jacket off him, pulls his tie from around his neck. She unbuttons his shirt and slides her hands up over his bare chest, and he lays a hand over hers, holding it flat against his breastbone. They stay like that, just kissing in the entryway, until the ache in her feet becomes too difficult to ignore and she pulls back, her heart squeezing at the unhappy sound he makes as their bodies separate and she kicks off her heels.

He catches her at her shoulders when she steps back into him, reaches around and pulls her zipper down her back, sliding the dress off her arms and letting it drop to the floor. She steps out of it and takes his hand, leads him over to the bed, pushes his shirt off and unbuckles his belt as he kicks off his shoes. Every step is measured and unhurried – his hands are gentle on her, and she lets him set the pace. He pulls the elastic out of her ponytail and she leans into his touch as he combs his hands through her hair. They peel the rest of their clothes off and drop down onto the bed together, and his hands are everywhere as she settles over him and keeps kissing – his fingertips trace her collarbone, trailing the entire length of her spine, his palms warm and firm on her breasts, her waist, her thighs. She pulls back a little, presses kisses from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone. “Hey,” she whispers, her lips just brushing his ear. “I love you, Nathaniel.”

His chest rises and falls under her with a deep breath, and he whispers back, “I love you too.” She shifts, kissing from his ear down to his jaw, down his neck, along his collarbone to his shoulder. She takes her time, covering his whole upper body in kisses – arms and chest and neck and shoulders, lingering everywhere he feels tense. His hands are soft and reverent on her, his breaths quickening. She goes lower, kissing from ribs to stomach, and he lets go of a soft whimpering sound and his hand finds hers and pulls her back up the bed. “I want…” he begins, then just guides her lips to his, winding a hand into her hair and rolling her onto her back. There’s an element of heat to the kiss this time, but he goes slowly, his free hand wandering, teasing around her nipple, spreading over her stomach, sliding between her thighs. Gentle fingers spread her open and start exploring, and a soft moan falls from her lips to his.

She slides a hand into his hair, holding his mouth to hers as his fingers push her higher and higher, her breathing ragged, then he’s shifting down the bed and his tongue is on her and she’s flying – she comes apart all at once, so quick and intense that the sound she makes is more surprise than anything else, trembling with the force of it. As she comes down, breathless, he crawls back up her body, trailing languid kisses everywhere on the way.

She presses a kiss to his forehead then pushes herself up to a sitting position – he follows, and she slides a hand from his knee up his thigh, nudging at his neck with her nose. He shifts back to sit against the headboard, and she reaches for a condom, gets it open and rolls it on, then climbs into his lap, straddling him, her hands planted on his shoulders as he guides her down with a hand on her hip. “ _Fuck_ ,” she breathes as she sinks down onto him, dropping her forehead to his as she adjusts to the stretch.

He offers a strangled hum of agreement, then his arms wrap tight around her and his head drops to her shoulder. She rolls her hips slowly, pressing soft kisses behind his ear, revelling in the friction of his body against hers, the warmth of his arms around her, the soft kisses he trails from her shoulder to her jaw. She arches her back and he makes a tortured little sound that sends tingles of hot electricity firing through her, her hips jolting involuntarily forward, and she’s done with slow – she rocks her hips faster into him, sliding a hand into his hair and holding on tight. He brings a hand up between them to tease at her nipple and spreads the other low on her back as she grinds hard and fast against him – he kisses her neck and her jaw and her ear, all tongue and teeth and hot breath on her skin until she’s tumbling over the edge, turning to liquid in his arms.

He shifts his grip on her and flips them without warning, settling over her and brushing her hair back from her face with his fingertips, his eyes on hers and expression soft as she floats down and blinks away the haze. When she can think again, she hums and arches up against him, and he rocks his hips slowly into her, all careful control, and it feels good, so good, but he’s been careful all evening. She stretches her arms up above her head and quirks her eyebrows at him, and he trails a hand from her hip up over her waist, her ribs, up the length of her arm – she shivers at his touch, whispering encouragement. He takes both her wrists easily in one hand, pinning them, and she whispers, “I love you,” then he’s finally letting go, holding her wrists tight, his eyes all possession as he drives her quick and hard and relentless into the mattress.

Matching his movements, she tilts her hips up, wraps a leg around his thigh – he breathes a curse as his rhythm turns haphazard, his body coiling tight, a series of breathy, desperate sounds escaping him. He releases her wrists, and she wraps all four limbs around him as he goes tense then melts against her, panting, his whole weight on top of her and his face tucked into the crook of her neck. Too soon, he gets up to dispose of the condom, then he’s back, standing at the edge of the bed and smiling down at her, and she holds her arms out and makes grabby hand motions at him. He pulls back the covers and they crawl into bed together – she guides his head down onto her chest and kisses his clammy forehead lightly, tracing patterns across his shoulder blades. He holds her tight, his cheek on her breast and hand spread over her waist. “You okay?” she whispers.

“I am more than okay,” he assures her. “Thanks for enduring that evening with me.”

She smiles, presses another soft kiss to his forehead. “Any time. Thanks for turning into a good person despite the significant odds stacked against you.”

He laughs, pushing up on his elbow to look at her and press a smiling kiss to her cheek. “It’s a work in progress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so nearly there, folks! I hope your holiday season is going well, and I hope no matter how it's going, you're enjoying this part. *hug* Come say hi!


	25. Friday December 25th 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas.

He wakes outrageously early to the buzz of his phone alarm, silences it immediately and stays still for a moment, making sure it hasn’t woken Rebecca. She’s curled in a ball on her side of the bed, facing away, breathing slow and deep, and when he shifts experimentally toward the edge of the bed she doesn’t move. Deciding it’s safe, he slips out from under the covers, writes her a quick note just in case she wakes while he’s gone, puts on shoes and grabs his keys.

He makes his way down to the storage room, his heart pounding in his ears the entire time, and with the help of the doorman he rolls her gift into the apartment. There’s nothing he can do about the sound of the wheels on the floor, and by the time he’s slipping back into bed beside her, she’s rolled over onto her other side, her eyes blinking slowly awake. “What was that?” she mumbles.

He slips an arm under her neck and she snuggles appreciatively into him, warm and sleepy. “Nothing,” he says softly, wrapping his arms all the way around her. “Nothing for the next few hours at least. Go back to sleep.”

She mumbles something indistinct about earthquakes then sighs, presses a sleepy kiss to his collarbone, wedging a leg between his thighs. Her breaths go slow and even and she’s out. Tangled up with her sleeping form, he plants a gentle kiss on the top of her head, buries his nose in the citrus smell of her hair and matches his breaths to hers.

He dozes on and off for a couple of hours, then she starts to stir in his arms, slow and drowsy. She burrows into his chest, nosing at the notch of his collarbone, and he draws slow circles between her shoulder blades with his fingertips, until the inevitable moment she’s alert enough to realise what day it is – she springs off him, bouncing onto her knees in one movement and grinning at him. She’s wearing just her Harvard sweater and tiny shorts, her hair delightfully untamed, smiling bright and dazzling. He can just see the edge of the piano at the corner, and for the first time he’s nothing but excited about it. “Good morning, sunshine,” he says, reaching for her.

She grins and launches herself at him, straddling his lap and catching his mouth with hers. She kisses him with impressive enthusiasm for someone who just woke up – it him a second to catch up, then he’s all in, sliding his hands up under her sweater to soak in her warmth. “Good morning,” she whispers against his lips. “Merry Christmas. I got you some things.”

“Mm, I got you some things too.”

She bounces backwards off his lap back onto the bed, biting her lip, eyes ablaze and legs crossed. “Can I go first?”

“Probably not, actually, unless you’re gonna do it with your eyes shut.” She tilts her head curiously, and he points past her to where the edge of the piano peeks around the wall, just a sliver of dark wood from this angle. “That’s for you,” he clarifies. She looks back at him with guarded anticipation, and he adds, “Go on.”

She stands, and he follows, watching her closely, preparing to explain, to reassure, but then she runs her hand slowly over the closed lid of the piano, touches the ribbon with gentle fingers, and turns to face him, a hand drifting up to rest over her heart. Her eyes are wide and swimming with tears, her expression so clearly delighted every part of him that had been coiled tight with worry unravels and his lungs empty all at once. She throws her arms around his shoulders, shoving her face into his neck, and he wraps her in a hug, swaying a little from the force of it. “I love you,” she whispers. “I love you I love you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, his voice low, happiness expanding in his chest with every breath. He blinks away tears, rubbing her back as she sniffles into his shoulder. Her emotions grow so big and so fast, expanding outward to fill the whole space - it’s impossible sometimes not to breathe them in.

She drops back, wiping tears from her face with her sleeve, then reaches up and catches the one rolling down his cheek with her thumb. He swallows hard, smiling, waiting. “Nathaniel, you have no idea…” she begins, then trails off, takes a shaking breath. She rests her hand over the lid, then it dawns on her slowly. She turns, a little furrow appearing between her eyebrows. “This doesn’t fit in here, like, at all.”

“No,” he agrees.

“And it’d be really obnoxious to play a piano in this tiny apartment.”

“I imagine it would be.”

She looks between him and the piano, her excitement growing and taking over her whole body so she’s practically vibrating with it, and he can’t keep the ridiculous grin off his face. “So we… We’re moving? Me and you and this piano? To another place?”

He laughs. “If you want that, yes.”

“I really do,” she says. “Oh my god, Nathaniel. Yes. I want that a lot.”

“Let’s do it.” He reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and the tiny step back and the sparkle in her eyes is all the warning he gets before she’s jumping into his arms, wrapping her legs tight around his waist and giggling against his mouth as she kisses him.

* * *

Her entire body fizzing with happiness, she turns on all the Christmas lights before collecting Nathaniel’s gifts and joining him, cross legged on the bed. He unwraps his Slytherin green pyjama pants and laughs, then hands her a parcel which turns out to be a silky Gryffindor robe. She pulls her sweater off immediately and puts it on. There’s massage oil, which she addressed to both of them with a little winky face, and a card she made herself which showers glitter all over the bed when he opens it. He tries to look mad about it for a second, then he reads what she wrote on the inside and his eyes go all shiny and he props it up on his nightstand. Then she picks up a second envelope.

“So I thought a lot about this,” she says. “I thought ‘what does a lowly pretzel maker buy her ridiculously wealthy, fussy as hell live-in boyfriend for Christmas?’”

“I am not -” he begins.

“You’re fussy as hell, Nathaniel, and I love you very much,” she says, waving his objection away. “Anyway, so there I was, racking my brain, lamenting the fact that I couldn’t think of a single thing that you wanted and didn’t just get, maybe, like, ever, in your whole life, and then… I thought of this.” She takes a deep breath, pulls her lip between her teeth and hands over the envelope. “Okay. Open it.”

His eyes scan her face for a second like he’s looking for a clue, then he starts to ease the envelope open, frustratingly slowly – she sits on her hands to stop herself reaching over and tearing it open for him. She chews her lip, watching his face intently as he slides the tickets out of the envelope, studies them for a moment, blinking in surprise, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Rebecca…” he says quietly, looking up at her. “This is – you didn’t need to -”

“I know I didn’t,” she says. “That’s how gifts work. Anyway, I mostly didn’t. I only paid for the flights, because while I _could_ have scraped together enough to pay for somewhere to stay in Hawaii, you have fancy taste and a basically limitless supply of cash, so I thought all things considered -”

He grabs both of her hands and tugs her toward him, and they crash down onto the bed together, his thigh wedged between her legs as they kiss, noses bumping, her hand in his hair and his sliding up her back. She shifts to kiss down to his jaw, and he catches her, tilting her chin to meet her eyes. “Rebecca. Thank you.”

“You are so welcome.” Cheeks flushed, she dips back down to kiss his neck.

* * *

They spend most of the afternoon at the beach, meandering around mostly aimless until their dinner reservation. He’s always had a soft spot for Santa Monica, despite the crowds and lights and general tackiness, and now that he’s here with Rebecca he thinks maybe that’s all part of the appeal. It’s certainly the reason this is the only place he remembers from his childhood that he really feels nostalgic about – it’s about as far from the atmosphere in his parents’ house as he can imagine, especially now, with Rebecca bouncing along at his side with joy rolling off her in waves. He buys her an eggnog frozen yoghurt, which she seems to think is delightful although it is objectively disgusting. She sings Christmas songs, she pulls him into selfies, she dances down the street, spinning under his arm, and he loves every ridiculous second of it.

In the restaurant, they’re seated at a window with a view of the ocean. After they order, they just stare out at the darkening sky for a while, their hands joined in the middle of the table, his thumb tracing arcs over her knuckles. “You know,” she says, “for someone who spent so much time claiming I moved to California to be near the beach, I have spent surprisingly little time at the beach.”

“If you moved to be near the beach, West Covina would’ve been a strange -”

She holds up a finger to silence him. “I am aware, thank you.” He laughs, and she grins, her foot connecting with his under the table, the toe of her shoe sliding up the outside of his ankle. She turns her attention back to the window for a moment, her shoulders rising and falling with a contented sigh, before her smile turns shy and her eyes meet his again. “We’re really moving to a new place together,” she says.

“We really are.”

“And I own an actual piano.”

“That you do.”

“And we’re going to Hawaii for Valentine’s day.”

“It appears so, yes.”

Her cheeks adorably dimpled, she chews her thumbnail, and he catches her foot between both of his. “Are you excited?” she asks.

“I really am.”

“Good. Me too.” She shifts his hand, holding it with both of hers and studying his fingers, her expression turning increasingly thoughtful, eyebrows pulling together. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this excited about something in a way that wasn’t terrifying,” she muses. “I don’t think I really realised it before, but being happy always felt like, a half step from crashing and burning into a giant flaming misery hole of terror.”

He waits, but she doesn’t offer the reassurance he’s looking for. “And now?” he prompts.

Her hand flattens over his as she looks up at him, and he knows the answer before she speaks, because her expression is all confident warmth, the kind of happiness with a solid foundation, that can take a knock without shattering. “I’m better at happy now,” she says. “I’ve been practising.”

“It suits you.”

He wants to say more, but the rest gets caught in his throat somewhere. He clears it with a tiny cough. She smiles at him, warm and reassuring, and it’s like watching the sun rise. “Thank you, Nathaniel. For always believing in me. It really matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s here! We made it! Merry Christmas, everyone. I know the holidays can be tough, and fic is one of the places I go to get out of stressful spaces and breathe. If this story can be that space for somebody, it has done its job. Also hello future readers - I hope whatever season you’re reading in is going your way.
> 
> Thank you so much to everybody who has read any part of this at any point - I would absolutely love to hear from you. Also thank you from the bottom of all the pieces of my heart to everyone who has already talked to me about this story in any form. Comments, writing in tumblr tags (I see you!), messages, cheering me on, flame emojis, etc. I have been living and breathing this story for two months now, and knowing there are people reading it really is the best feeling. *hugs for all*


	26. Thursday December 31st 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Year's Eve, & party time (they start naked then get clothed).

“We should start getting ready,” Nathaniel says half-heartedly, making no move to get up, continuing to stroke Rebecca’s hair where she’s splayed across his bare chest. He’s still waiting for his breathing to return to normal, his limbs heavy and a pleasant glow blurring the edges of his vision. “Valencia’s gonna -”

“Be here in two hours,” Rebecca interrupts in a low murmur, making infinity signs across his chest with her fingertips, drawing out his feeling of absolute contentment. Her leg hooks over his and she uses it to pull herself closer, wedging his thigh between her own, pressing a series of light kisses against his ribs. “Which is a long time. Plenty of time. In fact, your average refractory period -”

“Oh, nope.” He grabs her shoulder and rolls her over before she can finish the sentence, catching her giggle in his mouth as they kiss, slow and languid and tasting of toothpaste, his heartbeat still steadying in his ears. He feels loose and sleepy and utterly incapable of precision, but she doesn’t seem to mind – humming with satisfaction, she reaches around his back and pulls his body flush against hers. “You’re insatiable,” he murmurs against her lips.

“Not entirely,” she argues. “It’s been a perfectly reasonable amount of time, I just really blew your mind with my -” but he’s already sliding down the length of her body, trailing kisses as he goes, and she seems to lose her train of thought pretty quickly, the end of the sentence getting lost to a soft _aahh_. If he had full use of his cognitive functions, he’d tease her, make her work for it at least a little, but as it is she’s writhing under him, her hand threading into his already dishevelled hair and fingers curling against his scalp, urging him down, and he can’t summon any thought other than _fuck_ and _yes_ as he gets to work. His technique is noticeably less refined than he’d like, but what he currently lacks in finesse, they more than make up for in combined enthusiasm. Her fingertips scratch at his scalp and his hand curls around her thigh as he drags his tongue slow and firm over her clit. She’s all sighs and gentle moans at first, her body still slack and boneless, and she is so perfectly beautiful in every one of his senses he thinks he could do this all night. Then he teases her with a few quick flicks of his tongue and she’s tugging on his hair, and his fingers are inside her, fragments of exclamations and encouragements falling from her lips as she coils tighter and tighter, and then he sucks, hard, and she’s breaking apart with a beautifully broken keening sound, her back arched and thighs trembling. He slows but keeps going, weaving his fingers together with hers and dragging out her aftershocks with his lips and tongue until she’s groaning and tugging on his hair. “Get back up here,” she breathes.

He crawls back up the bed and her hand winds around his neck to pull him in for a kiss, her tongue trailing lazily across his lower lip. He pulls back to watch her eyes flutter open, brushing a few sweaty strands of hair back from her face. “Better?”

She smiles, slow and satisfied. “God, so good.”

Gratified, he drops down beside her, and she curls into him, nuzzling at his neck. He shifts to accommodate her, slipping his arm under her – she curls into him with a sigh, and he holds her there, a hand resting in the curve of her back. “We really should get ready,” he says.

Her breath fans across his chest, her back rising and falling under his palm. “I know.” He feels the impish smile against his chest even before she props herself up to look him in the eye. “Or…”

Groaning, he reluctantly disentangles his body from hers, pushes himself to his feet and heads for the bathroom. He pauses in the doorway and can’t stop his eyes from roaming the length of her body, bare and flushed and eyes sparkling, and god, she’s the sexiest thing on earth. “We have a party to attend,” he says, his voice as composed as he can get it, “and I’d like to be able to string a sentence together for at least some of the evening.” She pulls her lip between her teeth, raising an eyebrow in challenge, and fresh arousal begins to push through the fog of afterglow. “Just… Hold that thought for a few hours?” he suggests.

She grins. “Consider it held.” She pulls a blanket up over herself and burrows into the pillow, and he summons all his willpower to get into the shower without inviting her to join him.

* * *

When Valencia first asked to use the roof of their apartment building for her New Year’s Eve party, Nathaniel had flatly refused. The last party he’d attempted on this roof had gone about as wrong as it was possible for an event to go, and absolutely nothing about that evening is a memory he wants to revisit. But evidently Valencia was having trouble with her backup venue, and she’d asked Rebecca, and between the two of them they were annoyingly persuasive. He reluctantly put a lid on his objections, and here they are.

It’s decorated beautifully, all festive and sparkly. There’s music, courtesy of Josh’s playlist and a hired sound system, and a dancefloor, and Valencia directs people with trays of food to a few buffet tables she’s had set up under a canopy of fairy lights. Darryl, as always, has gone above and beyond, arriving with several loaded trays and two separate containers of bean dip, which he enthusiastically pitches to everyone who looks in its general direction. The party fills slowly, mostly with friends and familiar faces. He dances with Rebecca, catches up with White Josh and Greg, Hector and Josh, hears about _The Nutcracker_ in excruciating detail from Darryl. Rebecca is in her element, a social butterfly in a beautiful black dress that skims every gorgeous curve of her, all smiles and warmth and ridiculous dance moves.

Nathaniel barely used this space even before, but until tonight he hasn’t set foot up here since returning from Guatemala – he feels a bit queasy when he thinks about the last time, then Heather appears at his side and taps his arm with the neck of an open beer bottle, and the moment passes.

“Hey,” she says as he accepts the beer and she raises her own expectantly. “A toast. I heard you’re finally moving out of your very own attempted murder house.”

“It isn’t -” he begins, frowning.

“Relax, dude.” She clinks the neck of her bottle against his then takes a sip, maintaining slightly unsettling eye contact. She smiles at him, her expression curious and vaguely amused. “I’m happy for you,” she explains, dragging the words out a little like he might not understand them at full speed.

Eyeing her suspiciously, he takes a sip of beer. “Thanks.”

The amusement in her expression dials up a couple of notches. “No, I mean it,” she insists. “I’m like, excited for you. Rebecca, too. Not about you leaving the attempted murder house specifically, although that is, like, _objectively_ a great move. But in general – you’ve transcended beyond being nearly identical human disasters, and it’s kind of…” She shrugs. “Inspiring, or something.”

“Thank you,” he says, with a wry smile, “for that very backhanded vote of confidence.”

“Hey, I bet cash on you,” she objects, pointing at him with her beer bottle. “I’d say that counts for _several_ votes.”

“Huh,” he says, taken aback, a flicker of warmth growing in his chest. “Well. Thank you. Not for the betting – in fact, let’s never speak of that again. Just…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand that’s supposed to mean _in general_.

“Don’t mention it,” she says, clearly entertained, then bumps his shoulder with her own. “Hey, look at you, all evolved and expressing gratitude. It’s cute.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that, but Rebecca saves him the trouble – she appears behind Heather and winds her arms around her waist, nuzzling at Heather’s shoulder with her cheek, drawing out a nasal, “ _Hiiii_.”

“Oh hey girl,” Heather says, fondness suffusing her tone as she wraps one arm around Rebecca, drawing her in for a brief sideways hug. “Three drinks, huh?”

“Approximately three, yes,” Rebecca says, stepping toward Nathaniel – he catches her as she sways a little into him, nuzzling his chest. “Mm, you’re warm and tall.”

Heather surveys them with a wide-eyed nod. “Uh-huh. Well, good luck with that,” she says, after a beat. She ruffles Rebecca’s hair and adds, “Don’t forget to hydrate,” before patting Nathaniel affectionately on the arm and walking off in Valencia’s direction, waving vaguely over her shoulder.

Rebecca sighs, her chest expanding then deflating against his own, winding her arms up around his neck and starting to sway, though they’re not quite on the dancefloor. He guides her sideways a little, arms around her and hands settling at her back, holding her steady against him and leading her in something that’s almost a slow dance. “I’m kinda drunk,” she says, the words coming out a little more viscous than normal.

“Mm, I noticed,” he says, and she snorts a laugh against his chest, her whole body sagging a little against him. “Feeling okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You wanna sit down for a while?”

She shakes her head. She takes a half step back to rest her hands on his shoulders and looks out at the sky, at the city lights and the view, then up at him, her cheeks pink and eyes sparkly and glassy. “I always loved this apartment,” she muses, just a little slurred. “But it just, like, accumulated baggage, you know?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

* * *

She sits in a lounge chair, sipping water and leaning back against Nathaniel’s chest with his fingertips tracing soothingly up and down her arm, watching the party. She watches Scott spin Paula under his arm and reel her back in dramatically for a dip – Paula is laughing, really laughing when she straightens back up, and it makes Rebecca feel warm inside. Valencia is doing some kind of weird choreographed dance with Josh, trying to teach it to Beth. Heather and Greg are leaning against the railing, laughing about something. Darryl dances with Maya, with April, with White Josh – textbook awkward dad dancing that looks so good on him it’s almost like everyone else is doing it wrong. Slowly, gradually, her emotional scale tips from melancholy back via contentment, reaching bubbling happiness around halfway down her second bottle of water. She was a lightweight prone to drunk mood swings even before going on antidepressants – it’s kind of laughable now, honestly.

She straightens up, and Nathaniel’s concerned eyes scan her face. “Okay?” he says, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

She stands, taking both his hands in hers. “Come on. Come dance with me for real.”

He blinks up at her for a moment, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline as he adjusts to the tone shift, then she tugs him to his feet and leads him by the hand to the dancefloor. And she’s surprised all over again that he can dance, and not like in a ballroom but like _this_ – laughing with his hands on her swaying hips, twirling her under his arm, spinning her out and pulling her in close, pushing her hair back from her face as she hooks her thumbs in his belt loops and drags him closer, and she can’t remember the last time she kissed in the middle of a dancefloor but she’s sure it can’t have felt like this.

He gets her a glass of champagne for the countdown, and she knows it’s all artificial and ridiculous, that time is a construct and this midnight is no different than any other midnight, _et cetera_. But then everyone is counting down from ten, and she is too, and Nathaniel’s arm is around her shoulders, and when the air around her bursts into exclamations and fireworks, she tilts her chin up and his mouth is on hers, her body held flush against him, and it’s all the right kinds of warm and exciting.

“Happy new year,” she whispers against his lips.

He rests his forehead on hers, bumps their noses together. “Happy new year,” he agrees, low and soft. “Thank you for everything, Rebecca.”

“This has been the best year,” she says, dropping her hand down to tangle her fingers together with his. His eyes are sparkling, bright blue and reflecting fireworks, and she can’t look away.

“Yes it has,” he says, and offers up his glass for a toast. “To another?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, phew. We're here! I already did my big speech at the end of the last chapter, but since I'm here, and since this is all done now, thank you again for being here indulging this ridiculous choice I made. If you're reading this around when I posted it, happy new year, and if you're not, hello from the past! You're all great, and lovely, and I hope for lots of smiles for you in 2020 and always. *hug*


End file.
